Forced Awareness
by AiyokuSama
Summary: When things go wrong what's done will leave Tim, Bruce, Dick and even Alfred at a loss for how to deal with it.  Warning: Slash
1. Oppertunity 1

Author's Notes: This, and the second part of Oppertunity, is very explicite. Thus the Mature rating. Please, if you decide to read this realize that it IS slash and it DOES describe graphic (and possibly very squicksome) sexaul acts. The rest of the series is PG-13 for the most part as everyone tries to deal with what happens in Oppertunity.

!

I'm supposed to be tracing the money trail of the newest gang to come into Gotham. The idiots seem to think we're a good place to distribute their designer drugs. Of course, I finished that assignment twenty minutes ago. These guys aren't very with it. Bruce will probably just turn the information over to Gordon and let the man do his job. That works for me, since I have a feeling the bat and I will have bigger fish to fry.

Or plants.

At the moment, he's dealing with Poison Ivy. Again. She's worse then a weed, that one. Part of me wishes I was out there with him, but I had a job to do here and by the time I get out to the botanical gardens, Batman will already be mopping up. So I sit at the large super computer in my costume, minus the mask, just watching my musings running through my wired mind. Maybe I should give up the Zetsi cola like Dick says. Caffeine and sugar, the perfect combination for a teen-aged crime fighter.

Thinking of the former boy wonder, I have to smile. He's currently busy in New York, his new base of operations, and hasn't been around recently. I miss the hugs, the friendly touches and yes, the sex. According to the legalities we are brothers, just not by blood. When you face death or worse on a nightly basis, you need some way to blow off steam. Sex is far more enjoyable then yelling at each other.

The first time had been shortly after my father was killed. To say I was a mess would be the understatement of the century. I'd tried to hide away, to shut everyone out. Of course Dick refused to play along with that. Pushy bastard. He'd spent the better part of a day just holding me, letting my cry myself out over and over. I'm not sure when it happened, but I'm pretty sure I'm the one that initiated the kiss. I'll admit that my mind hadn't been properly engaged at the time, or else I doubt I would have tried something that bold, not with Dick, no matter how attractive or safe he is to me. To risk a working relationship for the sake of physical gratification should have been out of the question. Never mind that it wasn't about physical anything.

A kiss. A touch. More of the same, increasing in need and desperation, on my part at least. Dick had been so careful, talking to me, making me verbalize what I wanted. Looking back on it, I can honestly say that my greatest wish had been for intimacy and to be reminded that I was still alive, that I could feel something other then the constant pain of my heart. I love him, I know that now just as I've always known it. There is no doubt in my mind that he feels the same way, so the sex was just a logical extension of our feelings. That first coupling had been mind blowing on so very many levels, but also bitter sweet.

Dick didn't push me the morning after. Or the following week, or even the following month. He'd waited for me to come to him, to make up my mind about what I really wanted and needed. That, so much more then the sex, meant everything to me. It still does.

We aren't monogamous, nor lovers in some fairy tale sense. We are both masked vigilantes with our own territories, our own lives. We won't ever have the white picket fence fantasy and honestly, I wouldn't want it. We are family and nothing will ever change that.

Bruce is family too, but that's one person I'll never find in my bed. I've had a crush on him for years. Probably even before I realized it was a crush. No, it's not a crush since that would imply a childish infatuation. I know it's so much more then that, at times it scares me. However I gave up on that particular lust filled day dream a long time ago. It won't ever happen for a great many reasons, not the least of which being Bruce having adopted me. It's the same reason why he never jumped Dick.

I know it's not a lack of desire, I've caught the fleeting glances he casts after Nightwing and myself when we're out on patrol, in the showers, or even sharing a rare meal together. Never mind the year we spent travelling together. I can read the signs; after all, he trained me to be a detective. Not that I can or would do anything about it. If I made a move he'd run. Same with Dick trying anything. We both know this and we both let him have his space. It has to be this way. Bruce is the strongest, most determined man I know. Yet he's broken, and it wouldn't take much to truly shatter his very being. I don't think I could live with myself if I was responsible. I know Dick feels the same way. We've had this conversation a few times previously. It doesn't stop me from wishing things are different.

Still, there is nothing for it and no point in wasting my energy.

I turn my wandering thoughts back to reality and work on finishing up my report. As my fingers fly over the keys I absently check on Batman's progress. Vitals are strong, though it looks like whatever henchmen Ivy's got this time are actually making him break a sweat for a change. No running commentary, of course, that's not his style. I don't expect to hear anything until either he's got it all wrapped up and heads back, or there's a problem and he wants some assistance.

I know, I'm not really supposed to use the batcomputer for homework, but I got all the official stuff done and there are resources on this thing that the laptop in my room can't hope to match. Also, Alfred hates it when we wear the suits in the manor and I really don't want to have get redressed later if Batman calls.

Seems like I really got into the psychology report I'm putting together for extra credit since I didn't even hear Batman say he was returning the cave. The car just came through the tunnel and pulled to a stop in it's accustomed spot. A little frown furrows my brow. No, I hadn't heard him because he hadn't called in. See, I'm really not that out of it.

He exits the car before I can think to check the computer monitor readouts again, and he's not limping or anything, so at least he's not hurt. I've seen him do the stoic, silent shit he uses to cover up his injuries way too many times as is. The man can be so goddamn infuriating! It's a wonder Alfred hasn't murdered him yet. The butler has the patience of a saint.

"Success?" I ask conversationally. Okay, I know it's going to be one-sided. If I'm lucky I'll get monosyllable words instead of vague grunts. He doesn't answer at me all. Have things gone that badly? Surely he would have called it in if a bystander had been hurt. Or one of the bad guys even.

I watch him move and there are warning bells going off in my head. I've spent years training under him, working beside him so I know how the Bat moves, the fluid grace of carefully contained power. Soundless. Even though I live with him and have had years to get used to his habits, he can still sneak up on me without even trying. So when it registers that he's moving in a halted, jerky fashion and I can hear his steps, my every nerve is set on edge. Something is wrong very wrong.

The muscles in my legs are tensing just as I'm about to get up from the over-sized computer chair. In the same instant he's on me, his strong hands clamped down on the arms of the chair, his legs against mine, effectively caging me into the seat. The white-out lens are still in place, so I can't see his eyes to tell what's going through his mind. Is this another lesson? Has he been taken over by an alien mind probe? Or was Deadman having fun again? Maybe Bat-Mite?

He's trembling and I'm willing to bet that he's white knuckled inside the gauntlets, given the way he's clutching the chair. I can hear him breathing, deep and ragged as though he can't get quite enough air into his lungs. This is so very wrong.

"Batman?" Always use hero names when the suit is on. That's one of the rules and it makes sense. But at that moment, I don't think it's Batman who is before me anymore. I watch as he works his jaw. He's trying to say something but there is no sound involved. Well, I can read lips. Narrowing my eyes, I concentrate.

Poison.

Ivy.

Pollen.

Oh crap. Oh crap, oh crap! Wait a minute. "Did you use the anti-toxin?" I ask. He should have some, at least three doses in the belt and more in the car. We dealt with enough crazies that use various chemicals in their villainy that we can't have it any other way. Even if he'd needed to give it to bystanders, he should have had enough left over for himself. So why….?

He gives a sharp, jerky nod. His jaw is clenched so tightly that my own aches in sympathy. Right, so he's taken the stuff, why is he still obviously being effected by the godforsaken pheromones? And it has to be Ivy's damn sex pollen, it always the same modus operandi with her. The theory being that it will allow her to enslave others to her will by manipulating their hormones and bodies. It's pretty damn effective actually. Thus the need for lots of available anti-toxin.

So I'm sitting here, held prisoner in the chair by a horny Batman. A horny Batman who is obviously fighting for some measure of control, battling the impulses the drug is forcing on him. I know from experience what kind of damage such an effort can do on both the physical and psychological level. We have to counteract the toxin, that or knock him out until it runs it's course. If it runs its course.

I could do both. The way he's fighting with himself means that I could over power him if I tried. He'd hand me my ass in a fair fight, but right now, he's too busy trying to hold off the effects of the pollen to mount an effective attack. Still, I stay where I am, some part of me stunned by the smell of him, Nomex, Kevlar and sweat. So close and warm.

An analytical corner of my mind is wondering if the toxin is now effecting me. I don't think it is but reflexively I give my head a shake anyway. A strong, gloved hand seizes my jaw and forces me to look up. Bruce's lips are impossibly red and swollen, as though he's been biting them. I have the insane urge to kiss him. Nope, not gonna do that. That would be bad.

Except it's not my choice to make. Hot, hungry lips press to mine and begin working, trying to force my mouth open. Okay, so I don't make him work very hard. I mean I've wanted this for so very long and now here we are. I part my lips, only to dizzily register the fact that he's stopped.

Opening eyes I hadn't known I closed I look at him. He's still there, still standing over me, still all but pinning me in the chair. Except now his head is bowed and pulled back. The strong arms are shaking with effort. The effort not to kiss me?

I should take my chance. I should slip under his hold and go for the anti-toxin, or the tranquilizers. But he'd already had one dose of the anti-toxin. Would two be harmful? How would it react with the pollen in his system since this seems to be something new? And how would tranquilizers react to the drugs he's already taken? A small part of my mind is berating my lack of knowledge in this area. I'll have to research it later.

"Batman?" The trembling stops. I know he's holding himself rock still through sheer force of will. He doesn't look at me. "Batman?" I repeat, my voice soft with concern but not fear, never fear. I reach out and lay my cool fingers on his flushed cheek. The damn pollen is burning him up from the inside out. That thought galvanizes me. Yes this is something I want, but more importantly it's something he needs.

At the touch of my fingers he looks at me, shock in the line of his jaw. I don't say anything this time, I just lean forward and press my lips to his, swiping them with my tongue. Bruce has never put much stock in words, claiming that actions speak much better. That's fine, I can show him that I'm willing to do this for him.

I don't know how I got from sitting in the chair to being bent forward over the computer console, but here I am. The weight of Bruce's body is pressed up against the back of my thighs. I can feel the heat of him even though the armor. It seems harder to breath and I try to swallow against my startled pants. With a slow rocking motion I feel the man's hips grind against my far too accessible ass. The Kevlar makes for a frustrating barrier for both of us. I try to twist around, intending to offer to strip only to feel a powerful hand on the back of my neck holding me down. There is a low base growl somewhere close to my ear. It's the only warning I get before teeth clamp down on the junction of neck and shoulder. The armor protects me exactly as it was meant to, but I can still feel it.

A gasping mewl escapes my lips even as I go limp in his hold. Dick isn't like this. Dick is a gentle and considerate lover, a die hard romantic that has turned luxuriant foreplay into an art form. Bruce is nothing like Dick. Maybe it can be blamed on the drug cruising through his system, but I doubt it. Bruce is what he is, a dark force of nature. Proficient and lethal in all things he turns his hand too. It only makes sense that he'll be the same way when it comes to sex.

I'm not complaining.

To be so completely dominated is an incredible feeling. I know he could hurt me badly if he wanted to, but I trust him. I trust him with my life every time we go out on patrol, how could I do any less now?

As my mind rambles and wanders, his hands are moving over the uniform, undoing the catches in the proper order so as to disarm the electro-shock booby traps. Even drugged, he has the presence of mind to avoid the nasty jolt that would result from a careless attempt at undressing him. Me? My presence of mind is shot to hell.

He's removed the cape and now his teeth are working my neck in sweetly painful torture. All I can do is lay there, my toes barely touching the floor, and moan. I let him move me, shift me this way and that as he works the body armor off. The hand moves, but it continues to pin me and the strength in it is frightening.

I feel the damp, cold air of the cave on the exposed skin of my ass and thighs. Gauntlet covered fingers are kneading my backside and a small moan escapes me. It's a good sound, I know it is, one that gives voice to all the want I've bottled up for so very long. When he moves to start sliding his torrid length against the cleft of my ass, I get the feeling that he liked the sound as well. So I don't hold back. I'm not a screamer, but I pant and moan, letting him hear what he's doing to me.

Bruce is dry humping me and it's driving me nuts. Without conscious thought I begin trying to move my pinned body so as to get some kind of friction for my own hard on. Yes, I'm very hard. I doubt he knows it, but this hitting a number of my secret fantasies. Wait, this is Bruce. He probably does know, being the world's greatest detective and all.

I feel more then hear his growl and it's the only warning I get before he bites down hard on my neck, just this side of breaking the skin. I do scream, though it's as much startled pleasure as pain. Of course Bruce would mix the two, that is perfectly in keeping with his personality. Again, I'm not complaining. But I do get the message: don't move.

Sadistic jack-ass!

I go still again but it's a real effort to control myself as he continues to move. I couldn't stop the litany of wanting moans even if I wanted too. I just…thought has become a foreign concept as my world narrows to raw sensation. Finally, I feel warmth shoot into my back, Batman silently reaching climax while leaving me wanting. Damn him!

He's going to be the death of me yet.

I barely have time to think about saying something, begging for something I can't name when the armored fingers are moving through the warm semen on my back, scoping and dragging it lower. The thick digits travelled the length of my ass, working the copious substance against the tightness of my hole. I discover the true horror of being teased. Just when I think he might push a finger in, he pulls back and resumes his maddening touches. I only barely hear my own voice as I beg for him to be inside me. I'm vaguely aware of making promises to behave, to be good, to do anything he wants if only…if only…I doubt I'm making much sense by this point but I also doubt it matters to either of us.

"Shhhhhh," comes the wordless command. It's the first time he's said anything at all to me and the sound makes my entire body convulse in anticipation. Dear god! If he does that again I swear I'll come.

A gloved hand reaches around to grasp my hard-on, the texture of the material hard and unyielding. That's probably my only saving grace. I'm so painfully hard, that if it had been flesh touching me I would have been done for then and there. As it is, the gauntlet provides a harsh stimulus that serves to heighten my delirium, but also doesn't quite allow me to approach the edge. It is a very effective distraction, which is as he no doubt meant it to be.

The action in front has me desperate and wanting, so when a one armored finger slips in, there is only a little resistance. The digit reaches in so very deep and sends me gasping, my hips pumping helplessly between the two mind-blowing sensations. I think I'm begging again, though I couldn't tell you for what. All I know is that I want this to go on forever and yet am frantic to reach completion.

It doesn't look like Bruce has any intention of letting me come any time soon. He maddeningly seems to know the exact moment to back off so that I'm left hanging on the edge of not-quite-orgasm. I swear, he's deliberately melting my few remaining brain cells. And how is it he has this much control? Shouldn't he be fucking me into the ground by now?

It's Bruce. That seems to be the answer for everything with him.

A second finger joins the first and I wince. It's too much and I'm too dry. For the first time I actually start to panic, though I try very hard to remain still. Even as my terrified mind begins to run around in circles the fingers are removed as well as the hand that had been stroking me in front. He shifts and his forearm is across me back, holding me down. I have a moment to wonder what the hell he's doing back there. It occurs to me that maybe I should risk making a break for it.

Then the fingers are back and I think I've swallowed my tongue. Too much! My world narrows down to simply breathing as fire consumed me.

This time the fingers don't stop, but there also isn't the same amount of resistance. The initial shock is slow to wear off, but I can feel the difference this time. He's found some kind of lube somewhere. He scissors his fingers inside of me, stretching me out, searching. I don't have to guess what for when he hit's the prostate.

This time I know I'm begging. I can feel his smile against the back of my neck. My body is moving frantically trying to force him deeper into me. He doesn't appear inclined to stop me.

Then the fingers are gone and I'm keening at their loss as I lay heavily on the console.

Smack! A gauntlet covered hand lands heavily on my ass, making me yelp and jump. My abused fleshed stings something fierce, but at the same time I try to go a little higher on my tippy-toes, presenting myself for him.

"Again," I manage to grind out when nothing more happened.

Smack! Harder, and off to the side. It moves me, which in turn moves my penis within his grasp and…oh god. I'm going to…! And he knows it as well. The hand on my impossibly ridged length disappears even as a third smack falls. Then a fourth, a fifth. I'm not going to be able to sit down for a week and I really don't care. I'm pleading for more…of anything. Everything. Whatever he'll give me because it's all perfectly incredible and I'm not thinking any more.

He's not pinning me now so I arch my back, as my mouth falls open in something between a pant and moan. I push my neglected length against the edge of the console and get a hard, stinging swat for my trouble. Furious, I turn to glare over my shoulder only to have my jaw nearly hit the floor. The cowl is off and I can see the naked lust in Bruce's handsome, yet scary face. He looks like he wants to devour me.

"Please," I desperately beseech him. Since when did I beg so much? Is that something I should worry about? Not now, stupid brain.

I feel my ass cheeks being spread as he speaks into my ear. "Yes." The word is guttural and possessive in some freaky way that sets my every nerve aflame. Then the swollen mushroom head of Bruce's erection is nudging my entrance and I can fairly feel him vibrating in the effort not to just plow into me.

Now, I should point out that when I'm with Dick, I'm often the bottom by choice. The acrobat has a very, very nice and impressive penis. But this is Bruce and as with everything he's just so much…more. I bite my lower lip hard as he works to get the tip into my still so tight hole. He's going to split me open!

I don't care!

Then he's in, but stretching me so unforgivingly and I try hard to relearn how to breathe. I'm not going to pass out. I'm not. It's okay. Now.

The armored hand is back around front, stroking me. Belatedly I realize that I've partly deflated. Oh no, oh no! It hurts but it doesn't hurt that bad. I'll live, I'll deal. Just don't stop Bruce. Please don't stop!

He doesn't stop. The hand works me, bringing me back to life and he's holding so very still within me. So meticulous and careful. So Bruce.

When he starts to move, it's the barest twitch of the hips, pushing in just a little more. Mewling, I perform an odd shimmy, as though my body can't decide if it wants to flee or greedily accept the invasion. Of course, it's not my choice to make.

Every nerve is aflame as he pushes in oh so carefully, twisting and moving, constantly changing the angle of penetration and making it impossible to predict just what was going to happen.

Then he's all the way in to the goddamn root and I can't hear anything beyond my own laboured gasps. His hands are on me. His actual hands, no gloves. When had he removed those? It's inconsequential. All I know is that he's touching me, within and without, caressing and making my body sing. It's indescribable and will surely kill me. No one can live through this kind of visceral beauty.

A sharp pain, he bites the shell of my ear and then another kind of pain as he begins to move within me, pumping, slowly at first, then beginning to pick up a rhythm. I think it would be maddening if I could manage a cohesive thought, but right now that's way beyond the realm of possibility. All I know is that's he's pulling out and I don't want him to. Pleading, though I'm not sure if actual words are involved, I try to tell him how I don't want this to end.

He slams back in and I scream. I'm going to black out. No! Can't do that, not when I'm so hard, when he's touching me. Not when his hips start snapping back and forth, savagely claiming me, over and over. Oh please!

I'm going to come. Nothing can stop it this time. Bruce makes no effort to intercede, too focused on his own pleasure. Wild, he's losing himself, I think. I hope so. He needs this. We both do and it's a massive turn on that I can give it to him. More then a turn on.

A harsh sound rips from my throat as my orgasm hits. Everything dims and yet, and yet. I hold on. I'm not going to lose a moment of this, I promise myself. And Bruce. He's going to need my report.

Later, worry about it later. Stop analyzing and just feel it. Ride it.

The aftershocks rack my body and cause my ass to contract around Bruce. I hear something akin to a sigh as I feel his seed flowing into me, scalding me in the best possible way. Laying there my only thought is: now I can die happy, spent and utterly debauched as I am. I don't think I could move if my life depended on it.

I vaguely realize that Bruce is pulling out of me. That's fine, I just want to lay here a little longer.

Large hands are pulling me up to my feet, turning me and lifting me to sit on the console. I blink owlishly, trying to understand the nebulous sensory input. Bruce is before me, between my legs now. No, he's bending my legs upwards and back. I'm not really in a position to argue, on so many levels and it's even reasonably comfortable when my calves rest on his chest. Then I feel a familiar nudge against my abused rectum.

No way. He can't possibly still be hard!

"Robin," he whispers, his expression one of hungry, all consuming need as he pushes his way back in. And I'm lost, floating. I'm going to give him everything I have and more. I smile and nod, then it is all lost to the gasps that seem to be the sum total of my vocabulary.

It's going to be a very long night.

~End~

Authors Note: The next one will be the same events from Bruce's POV. I hope you enjoyed this. Comments and feedback always welcome.


	2. Opportunity 2

Author's Notes: This, and the first part of Oppertunity, is very explicite. Thus the Mature rating. Please, if you decide to read this realize that it IS slash and it DOES describe graphic (and possibly very squicksome) sexaul acts. The rest of the series is PG-13 for the most part as everyone tries to deal with what happens in Oppertunity.

!

What had gone wrong? Everything. Such is life.

I was able to evacuate the civilians, and Ivy should be in custody by now. I made sure she'd stay put until Jim and his people arrived. He's smart, he knows to have his men treat her as the bio-hazard she is. My suit is almost as good as a government issue hazmat one. Better. Add on a face mask and I'm all set. Nothing to difficult, just another night in Gotham.

Expect that one of her pollen zombies got lucky and ripped the mask off. I, of course, dosed myself with the anti-toxin and finished my job. However by the time I was ready to go, I could feel the vague sense of wrongness. I can think, reason, but it's like my thoughts are thick molasses. It takes effort to make anything work.

No, not anything, just some things. Other things come to me naturally and I find myself acting on them without conscious thought. And then there are the….ideas. They aren't hallucinations. They are just there, at the back of my mind, goading me. Suggesting things. Obscene things, with someone who is totally off limits.

I found myself driving back to the cave without any memory of making my way back to the batmobile in the first place. Then I'm in the cave and I can't get out of the car fast enough because I need to find him. I know he's here, this is where I left him, where he has to be doing the task I set him. After all the mistrust, all the let downs, all the pain, he's still a good soldier. I must have done something right somewhere along the way that he's still here. And right now I'm very thankful for whatever it is. I need him. He's the only one that can help me.

No! He's too young!

There, in the chair before the computer. The back is high enough to hide him totally from view, but he heard the car and swivels around to face me. I know he's talking to me, I can see his lips moving. If I can just focus a little more I could read his lips. Why is it so damn hard to focus?

My feet carry me closer without consulting my brain and then I'm leaning over him, hands clamped on the arms of the chair. He's puzzled, then concerned. No, not for himself. Run Tim, please run. Don't let me do this.

Yes, please run. I'll chase you. I'll catch you and then it will be all the sweeter when I take you.

No!

I will not do this! I am stronger then this.

Forcing my mouth to work, I try desperately to tell him what happened. I don't think I'm actually saying anything, I can't hear words coming from my lips, but I have to tell him. His blue eyes focus on my lips. Good boy. I can see it when he figures out what's being said. His eyes widen. There is a moment of panicked realization then his cool mind reasserts control. I can actually hear his words.

"Did you use the anti-toxin?" he wants to know, his eyes narrowing in thought. I nod. At least I think I do. I'm not sure if the abrupt movement I make with my chin can be called any such thing. I'm not sure of anything expect how very close his lips are to mine. They're not nearly close enough.

I watch the thoughts flicker across his face, then he averts his eyes and gives his head a shake. That isn't what I want. I need him to look at me, to see me. No, please don't see me, not like this.

My hand reaches out to grasp his jaw and turn him back towards me. I'm kissing him. Hard, demanding. Brutal. Run, Tim. Get away, far away. Please.

He doesn't run. The teenager is startled, yes, but he parts his lips before my tongue, allowing me entrance. My blood is singing in my veins. He is everything I want, everything I must have and so much more. I've watched him grow from an intuitive and lively child into a fine young man, his form so supple and beautifully chiseled.

No, he's still a child! I know this, it's what's kept me from doing anything before. I won't take this from him, I can't. I've fought to many of the sick bastards that steal the innocence of the young to become like them.

By sheer force of will I am able to pull back however fractionally, though every part of me practically vibrates with the strain. My head is hanging as I concentrate on making my body cooperate, but even so I can still see him in my peripheral vision. His eyes are closed and the look on his face is oddly relaxed, despite the situation. His eyes open and dart left, towards the infirmary alcove. Yes, good boy. You know what you need to do.

I feel him looking at me again, his consideration a near physical thing. What are you thinking, Tim?

"Batman?" It's such a sweet sound so full of entreaty and worry. The name strokes the very core of my being and my body stills. So very young. Too young! "Batman?" Powerless. There is nothing I can do in the face of his concern. Concern for me, not himself. He's not afraid. He should be terrified of me. He should be!

He's touching me, his fingers are delightfully cool against my cheek below the edge of the cowl. There is no thought involved, I lean into the touch savouring it. I won't do this, not to him. But this touch, that's allowable, isn't it? Harmless. Forgivable.

When Tim kisses me nothing else matters. My convictions wash away before the tempest raging in my body. I grab him, pulling him close. He feels so very good in my arms but that's not what I want. No, I need….my mind shuts down on that thought even as I'm pulling him up, bending him over the large computer console. It's a little too high and he has to support himself on his toes or risk sharp edges in painful areas. Not that I care.

With an impatient brush of my hand I move the cape aside and regard his armour clad form. Small, slight, it's easy to under estimate this boy. And many do on a nightly basis, much to their detriment. But I know the muscle he has, I trained him. I taught him how to make the most of his skill and abilities. There is power in him, I can feel it in the way he lays there, holding himself. Instinct wars with conscious thought as the frame tenses then begins to relax under my hands. He's making a concerted effort not to fight me. More then that, he's offering himself to…

No! He can't! He wouldn't!

Even as I scream in my mind, my body has betrayed me yet again. Pressing myself up against his posterior I lean over and covered the length of his back. I hate that the armour is there, in my way. I want it gone, I want to feel his skin. I want so very much and yet it all seems so out of reach. My hips begin to move rubbing myself on the boy, still trapped in my own suit as well. The sense of frustration ratchets up another notch and I growl, my mouth close to Tim's ear. There is an instant where I know what my body is about to do, yet there is no way for me to stop myself.

My teeth clamp down on the point where neck meets shoulder, hard. I can do it hard because he's still in the suit and cape, still protected. I love it. And Tim, he was forcing himself to relax before, now he has no choice as his body goes boneless, wordlessly submitting to me. Submitting. To me.

It's both the most amazing turn on and something that makes my stomach churn. The former is quickly winning out however, especially when I hear the exquisite mewl that escapes the boy's lips. I move my hands to the catches of his suit, undoing the cloak, getting it out of my way then proceeding to the shorts. Somehow I remember that there is a specific way to this, that it's important I do this right. Of course I remember, it's because I had made the addition to the suits installing the electro-shock defences. Same as how my cowl has little gas vents that will activate if anyone tries to remove it before I can disarm the counter measure. An eminently sensible precaution given what we do however it's now beyond frustrating.

More then anything, I just want to strip him and take him. I leave the tunic, because as much as I want to feel his skin, it's removal requires far too much precious time. My thoughts, my needs are focusing on his lower body. This will do. For now. Almost. With the cape gone I can bite his flesh, sinking my teeth into his neck. It's not enough to break the skin, I have that much control at least. He tastes so very good, like ambrosia. I can't get enough. My teeth move and search, some part of my mind cataloguing how he reacts, what works to make him submissive and compliant. It would seem my little bird has something of a fetish.

As I continue my oral investigations, my hands move to the exposed flesh of his ass and thighs. I can feel the corded muscle of them through the gloves I'm still wearing. Hard won, all of it. He might have let himself into my life, but I'm the one that took his childhood from him. I'm the one that set the rules, forced him to give up so much. Family, friends, hanging out, all the simple things that are part of growing up. Instead I conditioned him, taught him, honed him into something akin to tempered steel. Or I tried. I only got so far. Life took care of the rest.

He's lost so much now and I'm going to take what little remains to him. I'm a monster.

I can't stop my needs. I know I can't, the way my hands grope and fondle show this implicit truth. Even so, I'm not ready to give up. Not when Tim is the one that will pay for my lack of control. Control that is nearly nonexistent as I listen to the sounds coming from the mouth I can't see. The moans seem to reach to the very core of my being and stoke the burning fire there.

And I'm still in my own suit. Damnit.

I remove my hands from his flesh only for the few fractions of a second it takes to remove the suit's groin guard. My traitorous body is more then ready for this. I'm not small, in any way, but Tim is. I know he's not a virgin, I even know that it's Dick who he's found his comfort with. He's still so small. So young. I'll hurt him, I can't not. Just as I can't stop this.

Compromise. Somehow.

Without realizing it, my body has found a solution and hasn't bothered to wait for my mind to catch up. My length is being ground along the crack of his ass, gaining wonderfully torturous fraction in it's travels. Frottage is good enough. It has to be.

I can feel my balls tightening. It won't take long, then this will be over.

I try to shut out the feel of it, try to deny what is happening. Damn Ivy to hell! No, it's not her fault, not really. It's mine. I came back to the cave, to where I knew he'd be. I could have gone to one of the satellite caves, could have dealt with this myself; I didn't.

When it hits, the ejaculation is literally painful and the world begins to gray out. I fervently hope I'll lose consciousness and it will be over. I'm not that lucky.

Breathing hard, I look at the mess I've made over the top of the boys' ass and the small of his back. With something close to abject horror I realize I'm still hard. More then hard. Now the need is worse.

My fingers are scooping the creamy mess and pulling it lower, massaging my spunk around Tim's tight entrance. Around, around. I can't, I won't. I can't stop.

I can't make my body listen. Not when he's actively beginning, using words, not just sounds to plead for what I can give him. What I want to give him.

No!

I try to deny it but all that will come up is, "Shhhhhh." I need him to be quiet, though more then anything I crave hearing his voice. If he's quiet, I might be able to hold back. Maybe. At the sound of my voice though, a violent shudder runs through him. I try to tell myself that I've hurt him, try to use that to shock myself into stopping, but I know it's a lie. And I can make him feel very good. I can do that much.

Reaching under him, my other hand finds the boys' penis and if I ever had any doubts about his willingness what I found blew them away. He's almost as hard as I am. I've seen him in the shower after patrol, I know that he's a fine specimen in his own youthful right. Never before have I allowed myself to think about that. Now I can't think about anything else.

Perfect.

Willing.

Mine.

No!

Some part of my mind wonders why I'm bothering to object, since it's obviously futile. The rest is concentrating on both giving Tim a brisk hand job and continuing the task of lubricating his ass, preparing him as best I can under the circumstances. As I work, a finger slips in. I watch intently as one gloved digit sinks into his resisting flesh. So beautiful. So perfect.

My finger penetrates and moves easily as other hand works so effectively to distract him. Good. Add in a second finger, he winces visibly. I won't hurt you Tim. I promise.

Lube. Something to make it easier for him. Think! Control!

I have to remove both hands to find what I need in my belt, but I can't just leave him. I place my forearm along his back, holding him down.

The Albolene will work. I pop the little container of makeup removers from the belt. It takes impossibly long to scoop some onto my fingers then I'm pushing them back in. Both. He makes a little strangled sound under me.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Make it good. Have to make it good.

Move them, scissor a little, stretch him out. Have to do this right. Even as I think that, the sounds he's making change slowly to something far more heartfelt. I smile and my lips almost brush the short hairs on the back of his neck where I inhale the scent of him. Mine. Have to care for what is mine.

I work the two fingers inside him, finding the sweet spot. Another rush of his wonderful words spill forth and he's moving under me both pumping into my hand, against the invasion of his rectum. No, he's not allowed. We do this my way.

I remove all contact, standing away from him as much as I can and listen with a pleased smirk as he keens wildly, his body laying panting over of the console. He's so hard, so close. I won't let him come, not yet. Something else is needed, have to prolong things just a bit more.

When it happens, its just a reflex. My hand pulls back and lands heavily on the globes of his ass, cupped to make a most satisfying sound as well as to sting his flesh. He jumps and pushes a little higher on his toes as he tries to flee the sensation, but it's more then that. He's now in an even better position for another swat. I know it's a conscious action on his part when he demands, "again."

I shift so my hand moves to land in a different spot, harder, using proper spanking technique. Each blow moves him, pushing his erection against the unyielding metal of the computer. I can hear it in his frantic breaths, this is driving him close to the edge once more. Perversely I want to see how close I can take it, so the blows continue to rain down on his reddened ass.

He's pleading again, promising me so many wonderful, impossible things. Finally he seems to realize that he can move and so rears back in an effort to get more friction for his raging hard-on as well as present himself for further abuse. Insolent brat! When my hand falls this time, it's sharp, biting, a wordless reprimand.

The boy turns around and levels what would be an impressive glare under any other circumstances. At some point I must have pulled of the cowl because I realize that he's truly looking at me. As his blue eyes meet my darker ones, he begs one more time. "Please." All the need and desperation go into the single word. Any thought I had of resisting the urges of my body are completely forgotten as though they never existed.

Every reason, every idea, ever coping strategy vanished. My hands are on his ass, spreading the firm flesh and I shift as close as I can. "Yes." It comes out as something between a hiss and a sigh, all lust. I get the angle right and, I have to stop. Stop now! I can't hurt him. I won't. Slowly. Move slowly.

It feels like my every cell is spamming as I fight for the control I'm not sure I have any more. Just the tip. Just….yes! He's gripping me so tightly, his body showing me just how small he is. I want to sink into him fully but I can't allow that. Not now, not yet. Go slow. You can do this, just go slow.

Distract him. That will help. Help us both.

I reach around, grabbing his semi-soft member, using my gloved hand to stoke it back to life. I take my time, I have to make sure this is good for him. I have to. He's moaning again and the boy's head leans back against my shoulder. His eyes are closed and the look on his face is one of rapturous bliss. Now.

I twitch my hips, making an infinitesimal amount of progress further inside him. Just a little, not much. Control, have to be in control. The boy isn't making it easy. His body does a kind of shiver that neither moves him away nor against me. Using my teeth I pull the glove from my free hand and grab his hip in what is likely a bruising grip, trying to hold him still as I continue the claiming of his sweet self from both sides.

Finally I'm in to the root and it's indescribable. Nirvana. No, breathe. Stay still, let him adjust, let it be okay.

Switching hands, I continue to stroke his length even as I pull the remaining gauntlet off. Then I just have to touch, everything. I need to feel him, and curse that the tunic is still on, still hiding his nipples from me.

I can't last much longer. Improvise. I lean in to bite the shall of Tim's ear while at the same time I begin to move inside his tight heat. Draw out, almost all the way, then back in. Not to hard. Not yet. Just….not yet. He screams. It's to fast, to hard. He's not ready. I can't stop. Not when it his torment is the sweetest thing I've ever heard.

My hips are setting up an unforgivably harsh rhythm. Plunging in and out, fast, faster. More, I need more. I have to feel him, to hear him. His words, no, just sounds now are so perfect. He's calling my name. Maybe. It spurs me on.

Both hands are holding his hips in place now so that I can get better leverage. I use it all, claiming him in an animalistic fashion. I can feel him tightening up then he's exploding, screaming and that exquisite ass spasms around me. It's enough. I sigh and lean over him as I ejaculate inside him, feeling his body milk me.

For a moment, I can think clearly. Robin is under me. No, I'm inside him. We both just came. I pull out, but can't quite force myself to back off. My hands move to support the boy's languid form, helping him to his feet, turning him around.

The reprieve ends. I'm looking at his debauched expression and I can't stop. I close the distance between us. I'm still very, very hard, I realize as my erection brushes against the armoured stomach. Shifting my grip, I hoist him up so that he is sitting on the edge of the console. He blinks large, lazy eyes. So tired. So used. His knees spread wide for me and I move between them. I grasp a firm calf and move it, stretching the leg until it up against my chest, the heel above my shoulder. Then I do the same with the other leg. Still he doesn't react, there's just this dreamy little smile on his face, accepting it. Peaceful.

The peace is shattered as I push the end of my throbbing length to his red and swollen entrance. "Robin," I say, trying to show him, to tell him that I won't hurt him. I'm going to make it feel good, somehow. His mouth drops open in a soundless gasp as I enter him again. Then the eyes close and his face goes slack. I feel the tips of his fingers dig into my thighs, feebly trying to pull me closer as a litany of gasps erupt from his throat.

So beautiful.

As I once more pound into that supple body, I desperately hope that some day he'll forgive me. Even if he does, I know that I will never forgive myself.

End

Author's Note: Next is Regrouping Part one, which is from Tim's POV.


	3. Regrouping 1

Soft and warm. Those are my first thoughts. I burrow my cheek against the fine linen pillow case while savouring the warmth of flannel pyjamas and a down comforter. Then I'm awake, sitting up in my bed, blinking frantically. This is followed by my wincing as the motion puts pressure on my ass. Oh man…

That's right. I'd been at the computer in the cave. Batman came in and then. Wow. It happened. It really happened.

I flop back on the bed, arms out wide, just trying to absorb it all. Under the influence of Poison Ivy's sex pollen, Bruce had. Um. Assaulted me? I supposed the term is technically correct, but I distinctly remember not minding in the least. I still don't though I'm going to have to be real careful about moving and sitting for the next couple of days and my jaw is decidedly sore. Turning over on my side I curl up and try to remember how I came to be in my room rather then down in the cave.

I can recall having at least four orgasms, some interesting if muscle taxing positions and an abundance of lube. I seem to recall Bruce cleaning me up in the shower, then sexing me up against the tiles….again. Did I pass out? My hair and the pillow under it is still damp and every inch of me feels clean. I can smell the faintly spicy scent of the shower gel I prefer. A tentative exploration and my fingers encounter the vaguely greasy substance of the wound salve that has been carefully spread on my poor butthole.

Right. Looks like Bruce cleaned me up, doctored me, dressed me and then tucked me into bed. In my own room. Alone. Anyone want to take bets on his brooding in the dark somewhere? He's no doubt blaming himself or worse. Probably worse. No, definitely worse. Damn it all.

I throw the warm covers off and rolling off the edge so as to get up without putting any weight on my tender backside. The cold floor boards almost shock a yelp out of me as my bare feet make contact. There is the faintest glow around the end of the thick curtain screening my window. It's sometime around dawn then. Which means I can't have been asleep long. An hour maybe, no more then that. Bruce has had an hour to do whatever brooding bats do to themselves.

I need to find him. I have to explain that it's not his fault. There is no "fault" involved as far as I'm concerned. Part of me is actually grateful to Ivy. Without her damn pollen, this never would have happened. Yes I'm sore. Damn sore. But it's a good feeling given what caused it.

A little, satisfied smile plays on my lips as I head out into the hall and towards the master bedroom. He might be down in the cave of course, but I've got to start somewhere. When I find his bedroom door locked I frown. He's in there, has to be since that door is almost never locked. I could go back to my room and get the lock picks from the night stand; it wouldn't take long and the lock itself even less time. I stay where I am, looking at the thick wooden door. The light isn't on. That doesn't mean he's asleep. Far from it. Bruce is an insomniac at the best of times. This isn't the best of times as far as he's concerned, I'm sure.

Taking a deep breath I knock softly on the door. Not too loud, I don't want to bother Alfred, however not soft enough to go unnoticed by the occupant. I can't hear anything on the other side of the door. Nothing. He's ignoring me.

"We need to talk." I try to put an authoritative tone in my voice, like I'd use if I sported the Robin suit. If anything will get through to him, it's that tone. Just like I will habitually snap to attention if Bruce uses the Batman growl. It's a conditioned thing, something that keeps us alive on a regular basis; something that has been known to break through emotional barriers in the past. Never mind it's caused more then a few as well.

Still nothing.

"Bruce." A little louder this time. I bite my lip. What should I do? Do I break in? Do I try to wait him out? I don't want to pick the lock or force the door. It would be an unforgivable invasion of his space and probably do more harm then good. But if I'm honest with myself I know that he can out wait myself, Dick and the rest of the cape and tights community if he's so minded.

Well, he has to come out some time.

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell the air around me. That's what he's thinking, right? That I'm going to run away, hate him or worse? Probably. And now he won't talk to me so I can't convince him otherwise.

Infuriating, stubborn man.

Very stubborn. Why do I get the feeling that this is going to take a while? Maybe I should get some more sleep? All of a sudden that seemed like a really good idea. I'm aching, but more then that, I'm bone tired. Apparently mind-blowing marathon sex can really take it out of you. Go figure.

A large yawn splits my face, causing my sore jaw to pop. Yeah, sleep sounds really nice. And it's Saturday so in theory I can sleep as long as I want. The thing is I don't dare go back to my room. With my luck Bruce will sneak off while I'm zonked out, head off world with the JLA and then it'll be weeks before I see him again.

So what now? Do I camp out in front of his bedroom door? I internally wince at that one, it sounds far to juvenile for words. But what are my alternatives? Oh hell. I'm Robin, this is the Manor and the Cave is beneath. I have access to plenty of gadgets and dodads not to mention a massive super computer with tracking capabilities. Then of course there is Oracle to call on if I still need help.

I can go down to the Cave and set up a program to keep tabs on him while he's at home; if he goes out I can track him through the equipment we invariably use. That way I can give him his space and still be able to find him when needed. I mean we're still Batman and Robin, right?

Probably. But the fact that he is Batman means that he'll likely have ways around everything I could do to keep tabs on him. I run my hands through my still damp hair in frustration.

If I leave to much distance, I know from past experience he'll close off, internalize everything and shut out his family. Bastard has done that way too many times in recent memory, though he's been making an effort to change since last year's Crisis.

And is what happened last night as bad or worse then the past traumas? I don't think so, but I'm not him. For all I know his entire world is collapsing in on itself because he thinks he raped me. He would think of it as rape too. He'd have to, since anything else would open up possibilities he's been working so very hard to ignore.

Oh Bruce. You're such a fuck up.

Standing there in the hallway I lean in to rest my forehead against the door, my hands splaying helplessly over the wooden surface.

No, we're so fucked up.

It seems to be a hallmark of everyone in the Batfamily. We all have so many issues and they screw with our heads over and over again, leaving others to deal with our various emotional landmines. Sometimes it seems like no matter what we do, we just end up making things worse. And yet, what else can be done? I have keep trying.

"I don't blame you, Bruce. You didn't do anything wrong," I say into the wooden barrier between us. "Just. Talk to me, okay?" Way to go Tim, as if that's going to make him open up. I wouldn't even talk to me when I'm sounding like some pathetically heartsick girl. I'm not going to become any such thing. Really.

Taking a deep breath I rally my thoughts, trying to ignore the irrelevancies and focus on dealing with the brooding Bat. I'm better at talking things through then Bruce is, but that's really not saying much. Maybe I just have to talk for both of us.

"Alright. I'm just going to keep talking to you through the door. And if Alfred hears, that's tough." Actually, I'd be surprised if the butler isn't already aware of what transpired in the cave. The man seems to have a sixth sense about what happens to the members of the Batclan.

"You didn't do anything bad to me, Bruce." I'm trying to keep my voice calm and low to give us some semblance of privacy, but still be strong and assertive. Not an easy thing to pull off when I'm at the top of my game, never mind when I'm trying to talk through a door. "You gave me tons of chances to get away and I chose not to. My choice. My decision."

Come on. Come on. You have to be in there. You have to be listening. I need you to hear this, to understand it.

"I wanted what you gave me. Do you hear me? I wanted it. I've wanted it for years now, but I know you. I know what you're like and what you think and I wasn't going to risk everything we've been through, everything we are as a team. So I gave up on anything ever happening. Then you came in last night and I…" The words just dry up in my mouth, tasting like ash as I come to a truly repugnant realization.

"I used you. I took advantage of you, Bruce. I'm sorry." I really am. How could I have been so stupid? I knew what this would do to him and I took advantage of the situation anyway. I knock my head against the door. Then again. Stupid, stupid, stupid! "I'm an asshole. I'm sorry."

It doesn't matter that he came onto me or that I was the bottom. It wasn't his choice, plain and simple, the toxin having made sure of that. He doesn't do well with a loss of control to begin with. Hurting one of us when he's out of it, well that's a double whammy.

And now I'm standing here like an idiot, trying to talk through a door which is locked because he doesn't want me around right now. I just… Time to go, Tim. This is something I can't force. He'll talk to me when he's good and ready, not before. Knowing that doesn't make it any easier.

"Master Tim?" comes the vaguely surprised voice with it's British accent.

I straighten up and do my best to plaster a smile on my face. Faced with this man, I suddenly felt very young standing there in my jammies. "Hey Alfred." I try and fail to stifle a faked yawn. "Just on my way to-" I don't bother to finish the lie, given the way he's glaring at me.

"Did you two have a fight?" he wants to know. The dapper man sounds somewhat disappointed. Well, given Bruce's past history with his Robins, it shouldn't be surprising; the possibility of a fight or Alfred's disappointment in such an eventuality. I just get the feeling that there is something more to it then what Alfred is actually saying. Or even implying.

"I'm not entirely sure," I admit to him, being absolutely honest. What happened down in the cave couldn't really be called a fight and since he won't talk to me, we aren't fighting. Right? Glancing at the locked door again, I wonder about it.

"I can't imagine talking through a door will do much good." That's Alfred, master of the obvious. Of course, nothing says I'd have more luck talking to Bruce face to face.

A firm arm goes about my shoulders and I feel myself being steered down the hall. "There is some disgustingly sugary cereal that you can eat while you tell me what's going on." It's not a request.

The man might technically be a servant, but that's not even close to describing how it works. When Alfred gives an order it is unfailingly polite and set in stone. We are going to be talking and I have no idea how to avoid it. I mean it would be like talking to your dad about abortive sex with your girlfriend. Thank you, no.

I rub one eye sleepily as we walk, trying to play on his sympathies. "Eh." That's it, yawn nice and big. "Can we talk later? I really need to try and get a few hours sleep." I don't try to claim that it's no big deal. He'd see right through that lie too.

Sharp eyes narrow at me and I do my best to appear young and harmless. He's not buying, I can tell. Then the man heaves a put upon sigh and lets his arm fall from my shoulders. "Off you go then," he admonishes gravely. He says nothing about talking later, he doesn't have too. We both know that eventually he'll get his way.

I head for my room as Alfred takes himself in the other direction, but I don't go in. Loitering long enough to make sure that everyone's favourite butler had indeed gone elsewhere, I head down stairs for the study. I need to set up that surveillance. Then I'll go back to bed, promise.

However, when I toggled the switch in the old grandfather clock nothing happens. Stupidly I try again with the same lack of result.

He locked me out.

What the hell?

Now I'm getting angry. The cave is as much my space as it is his. I need to be able to get in there to stock up so I can patrol tonight. And he locked me out! I'm gonna-

"Bruce!" All the frustration, anger and sorrow just bubbles to the surface and I can't stop it. I pound my fist on the side of the clock's alcove, gritting my teeth. I am so not going to cry. No, no crying. Backing up I glare at the offending clock as if the power of my scowl will cow it into cooperation.

Another pounding of my fist and a turn on my heel. I'm not going to get in through the clock, but that's not the only access to the cave. There are at least three I can think of that I can hack. So let's go get dressed and see about doing that. I'll worry about sleep later.

Back up to my room and into a clean pair of jeans. A warm sweater and bomber jacket followed. Best to put on the hiking boots, I might need those, depending on how far a field I have to go.

You should know better then this Bruce. You trained me. Hacking systems is part of the job description after all.

~END~

And yes the naxt part of Regrouping is from Bruce's POV. Sensing a theme here? This series was basically a test for myself to see if I could handle the different "voices" of the characters involved.


	4. Regrouping 2

Eleven times. Eleven orgasms, each on more incredible, more excruciating then the last as my body is pressed painfully beyond it's limits by the toxin. Finally, finally I can think again. Everything becomes agonizingly clear to me. From the laboured breathing of the boy I held pinned against the shower stall, to feel of the water spray just starting to cool. What had I done?

Tim is beyond exhausted, his gaze is vague and glazed. He's trying to look and me, and there is even weak smile on his lips before eyes roll up into the back of his head and he passes into oblivion. I try to tell myself it's for the best.

Carefully supporting him, I wash the languid form clean. Desperately I strive for the detachment everyone seems to think I'm so good at, so that I can look at him without feeling anything. It's a futile effort. My body stirs even as I feel another wash of self-loathing descend upon me.

I failed. More importantly, I failed the trust Tim has put in me. Yes, he's a crime fighter in his own right; a more then competent one at that. Yet it's my job to protect him from the mechanisms of those we face. He should have been able to rely on me. I'm the one with the training, the experience. I'm the adult. I should have…I should have never returned to the cave.

My hands work diligently as I cleanse the youthful body, carefully removing all traces of what has transpired. I try not to remember what else my hands did to the skin I'm touching. I try to convince myself that those memories aren't making me hard. With gritted teeth, I force myself to focus solely on reaching up to turn off the shower spray. I can think now, my mind is my own, but my body isn't finished. It wants more.

It's not going to get more.

I'm practised in the art of self-denial. And knowing what is to come of this, how I've damaged things irreparably, only cements my resolve.

Getting us out in the changing area, I use a fluffy towel to pat Tim's sleeping self dry. He is beautiful, I can admit that much in the privacy of my own mind. It's because of his beauty that I've worked so hard to keep things professional. Even the intimacies of being a father to him are dangerous. So I'm cold, detached. It hurts him I know. Much as it hurt Dick years ago. There is no other recourse, save banishing him from my life and I'm not so strong as that.

When he's dry, I take him to the adjacent infirmary module. I need to know how bad the damage is, if it's something that can be treated here or if I need to get him to a professional. If I could have shut my eyes, I would have. I don't want to see to evidence of it all spread out before me. No, he had been able to bear it, the least I can do now is try to mitigate his suffering.

Thankfully, while there is an abundance of bruises, there is precious little tearing. It seems wrong that all he needs is some salve to sooth his battered flesh. Then I realize that the damage to his body is nothing compared to what I've done to his spirit, to the depth of my betrayal.

My hands are trembling ever so slightly as I dress him in the pair of flannel pyjamas Alfred has stored down here. I have to stop myself from stroking his abdomen as I button the shirt. This is all so very wrong.

I don't remember putting on the dressing robe, or making my way up to the Manor. My mind seems stalled on the fact that I'm clutching the small form in an obviously possessive fashion as I slowly trudge towards his room. I can't let myself think about how he's curled himself against me, hands lightly resting on my chest, his breath having evened out into actual sleep. The room is to close, I want to hold onto him just a little longer, but I'm standing beside his bed. It takes everything I have to make my body function as it is. Gently I lay him down, keeping my eyes on his sleeping face. As I tuck the blankets around him, I feel a horrible, sickening tightness in my stomach.

More then anything I want to run from that room, from him. I force myself to walk slowly, soundlessly, lest I wake him. He deserves his rest. Closing the door behind me, I head to my own room. It doesn't really register that I lock the door behind me.

Looking around the lavishly appointed master bedroom, I begin to shudder. This isn't my sanctuary, my haven. This is a part of my public life, of Bruce Wayne, the billionaire play boy. Up here I feel exposed and vulnerable in so many ways.

I crossed a line tonight. No, I crossed many lines. I'm Robin's partner, his mentor. I'm also Tim's father. All of those are positions of trust and I betrayed them in the most heinous way possible. Yet somehow that's not the worst of it. No, the worst is knowing I have now become that which I loathe and hate, that which I rage against each and every night.

Tim is only 17. Not legal.

And that makes me…

I think about throwing the lamp from the night table, about tearing the antique mirror from the wall, about raging and destroying this façade with which I've surrounded myself. It's an impulse that I quash ruthlessly. Tim needs his sleep.

Instead, I move to the back of the walk-in closet and active the catch hidden among the wood panelling. The small secret door slides aside, allowing me admittance into the dark passage beyond. I don't bother with a light, I know the way well. After all, I designed it.

When we rebuilt the manor I had a number of such passages put into the construction. The contractors wrote it off as the eccentricities of the rich. There are six ways into the cave from the house. One of the passages leads from Tim's room. He knows about it, the same way he knows about the cameras in his room. Security is everything in our lives. We work so hard to make the city safe for strangers, it's even more imperative that I can do the same for my family.

Dick is aware of most of the cameras I put in his Manhattan tower, but like Tim, he's been accepting of the precaution. Which is just as well, I'm not about to change my methods any time soon. The cameras allow me to watch them without venturing dangerously close. Moving to the computer I bring up the screen that shows Tim's room, allowing myself the luxury of watching him sleep. He's so peaceful and I give a word of thanks that he's not having one of his nightmares. This isn't the first time I've watched him, or even the thousandth. It's the closest I've allowed myself to get to him, until…now. Until the situation had been forced on me, on him.

No, I won't lie to myself. I could have gone elsewhere. I chose to come here, because it's where I knew he'd be, where I had stationed him.

I lean my elbows on the console and hold my head in my hands, a rare show of the weakness that is my bane. I can smell him here, pungent and alluring. The memories are sharp, demanding. I stifle a gasp, feeling myself harden yet again. No. I will not do this.

Mechanically I get up and go to where Alfred stores the cleaning supplies, then I begin the task of scouring the work station, especially the chair. I'm meticulous. I can't let his scent linger, it'll drive me mad.

I lose track of how long I franticly work. I look up and see Tim's empty bed on the screen. Where is he?

The rag is tossed in a random direction as I tap out commands, jumping from one camera to the next throughout the house. Oh. He's outside my room. Standing close the to door, the angle of the view is all wrong and I can't see his face. I can't tell if he talking or crying. No, I don't think it would be tears, my Robin is to self possessed for that.

I need to get more cameras in the hall, and some sound equipment. A part of my mind is already working out the details even as I watch the boy. The flannel pyjamas are the right size for his slight frame, emphasising how truly young, how vulnerable he is. The horror of my actions renews it's self in my mind.

Young, determined, giving. He came to me not long after Jason died. He told me that Batman needed a Robin and though I tried, he wouldn't be dissuaded. The boy's tenacity impressed me. Time and again he refused to give up, no matter how hard I pushed him in the name of training.

And again he kissed me, presented himself to me.

No! I took him by force, I stole a piece of innocence he will never get back. I…I raped him. I raped Robin. Tim. The one person who should be able to depend on me as no other.

Once more my thoughts begin to spiral out of control. I let it happen, I have to. But I'm good at compartmentalizing. The rest of me continues to watch the monitor as I see Alfred come onto the scene. They are talking, my old friend is inquiring if we had a fight. There, now I can see Tim's face and I wish I could not. He's put on a little smile, his game face, the one he'd perfected for his dad and step-mother so long ago. I can see under it, my detective's mind searching for the things he wants desperately to hide.

He's hurt, I can see that in the little shifts of movement, bruises peeking from beneath the collar of the shirt and the slight reddened swelling of his mouth. I hurt him. It shouldn't come as a surprise, all things considered, how could I not have? So young, so small. He uses that every night to make Gothams' rogues underestimate him. But it's true all the same.

And I hurt him.

I'd never gone looking for them. The children have always found their way to me, to Batman. Even so, I promised myself that I would do everything in my power to protect them. I've failed so many times. This time, I've failed in the most obscene way possible.

"I'm sorry, Tim," I whisper to the Cave's cool air. I want to hold my head in my hands again, to give myself the luxury of blocking his image from my mind, but I don't deserve it. Instead I force myself to continue watching the boy on the screen. I change the camera feeds to follow his movements through the house until he comes to the old grandfather clock in the study. There is no need of sound to know that he's screaming his anger. I locked him and everyone else out. It is a simple perception on my part, not an effort at slighting him. I don't know if the pollen has cleared my system.

There's no excuse for my not knowing. I should have taken a blood sample as soon as I came down. Instead I've been wallowing. That will change now.

Resolutely tearing my gaze from the monitor, I head to the infirmary alcove and set about drawing the sample. Pull the elastic tight, clench my fist. I don't flinch at the sting of the needle, doing so would be pointless, but I let the minor pinch ground me in the here and now. Focus on it. I can't allow myself to get lost in my regrets again.

Whatever comes now, I'll have to deal with it. At some point. I can't change the past, I only hope that my actions haven't broken something vital in the boy. If he could gain access to the cave, I expect that he'll inform me that he's quitting as Robin. It's only sensible after all. How could I possibly expect him to work with me after…..what happened?

How will I be able to focus on my cases if he is around?

Squeezing my eyes shut tight I dig the needle around in my arm. The resulting bruise will no doubt be impressive. Focus. There is no time now. I know the boy, I trained him. He's not going to give up trying to say his piece just because I locked him out. Dick would have stormed off in a huff not to return for some time, but Tim is different.

Pulling the needle out, I tape a cotton ball over the seeping puncture. I don't even think about what comes next, I just operate on auto pilot. Get the computer analysing my blood, and while it works clean up the medical unit. Keep busy, that's for the best. I look at the weight machines and try to control my reaction. No, I won't think about it. I refuse to remember.

Turning my gaze to the Batmobile, I frown. The engine needs tuning, but not now. Not when I… Just, no.

The gymnastic equipment then. The rings are safe enough, being only what they are rather then-props. And working them will take all of my concentration since it's not my strongest skill set. Perfect.

Changing into a pair of track shorts I savour the cool air of the cave. The work out does what I want for the most part. I did not notice how much time I'd spent on them, an hour at least or maybe two, swinging, holding, making my muscles strain and shake. Physical sensation, preferably unpleasant types, has long been a way of distracting myself from contemplating of a great many things. However, when the computer beeps an alarm, I snap back into myself.

It's not telling me that the sample is finished, it has some time yet before the task is completed. No, that sound means that someone is attempting to breach one of the Cave's entrances.

I pull my muscles taunt, and give one last flip before landing on the mats in a perfectly functional and efficient fashion. The stone is cold against my bare feet as I stride to the computer. Focus, look at what's on the display. Nothing else matters, most certainly not my traitorous memories.

Zone 7. That's the one in the forest ad the eastern edge of the property. I don't need the cameras to tell me who it is. Tim. He's of course dressed for the damp fall weather and wearing a back pack that no doubt holds the supplies he's been able to find in the house. It's not much, but the boy has a habit of stashing all kinds of things in various hidden places. I wonder if he started doing that after Jean-Paul locked him out of the cave all those years ago. Prudent, whatever the reason.

My resourceful little Robin.

I'm proud of him, of the direction he's gone with his training, but I can't have him in here. Not now. Not when I haven't been able to scour the effects of the pollen from my system. Not when my body is obviously desiring a repeat of our previous encounter.

However, unless I'm willing to administer a couple thousand volts and render him unconscious, there isn't anything I can do beyond let the computer's defences deal with his efforts. It will only buy me ten minutes at most.

My talented little Robin.

I'm going to have to be elsewhere when he gets in. I can have the test results sent out to the satellite caves and use the supplies in one of the locations to put together an anti-toxin. Even if he follows, it won't matter. I can just keep moving until it's handled.

Heading for the Batmobile, I don't even bother to change into anything more substantial. I make the windows opaque and head out to the sound of the engine's roar.

Just keep moving.

END

Author's Note: Oh yes there is more to go, keep reading, but now that you see how this works I won't give you any more spoilers :)


	5. Brothers 1

He's not in the Cave by the time I've finally convinced the electronics to cooperate. Not a surprise, all things considered. I can still smell the Batmobile's exhaust. A little frown makes its way across my features. Okay, not a frown, that's far to mild a term. Looking around at the cave I'm already thinking about what items I'll need to incapacitate him once I corner the man. I have every intention of hog tying him and making him listen if that's what it takes.

Stupid, stubborn bastard.

Well, yes he's stubborn and stupid, but there are other reasons behind his actions. It's obvious that he's scared. Not that he's likely to ever admit it to himself, let alone anyone else, but that's the reality just the same. He lost control and he's going to hide until he's sure that it won't happen again. It's one of his patterns.

Moving to the computer I notice that the diagnostic equipment is in use. A sample of Bruce's blood is being tested, isolating the new strain of toxin. That's reasonable. It still has another four hours at least before we see any results. I'm not so optimistic as to think he'll come back for them. A quick look through the computer's automated settings confirms that; the information is going to be sent via secure lines to the satellite caves. All of them. He couldn't even give me a clue about which one he's eventually headed towards.

With a sound like a strangled scream, I almost throw myself into the chair before thinking better of it. Instead I just stand there clenching my fists. I'm angry, sore, and dangerously short of sleep. That's not a good combination. Thankfully there is a convenient heavy bag at the edge of the sparring mats. Distractedly, I realize that the mats are far cleaner then, well, they were before. Catching that small detail causes me to look around. Yes, he's cleaned away all traces of what happened.

I don't know why, but that makes me…sad? Furious? I don't want to forget what we did, those few hours of a tormented heaven I thought I'd never experience. I swing a vicious right hook at the bag and set it swaying. Without thinking, I start in on the taped canvas, alternating sides, changing the targeting and making it creak loudly on it's chain. It's a while before the sting of my knuckles registers through the haze of my own anger. Looking at the bloody mess I belatedly think about how I should have wrapped them. Too late now.

Oh crap, I should unlock the rest of the cave and let Alfred in. The man did his usual stiff upper lip routine, but I know he's worried. I just can't bring myself to explain what happened. Not now, maybe not ever, we'll have to see.

I watch my bleeding knuckles as my fingers hit the proper sequence of keys at the computer, then dial upstairs. He answers before it's had a chance to ring once, which is curious. "I've unlocked the Cave, Alfred." Please tell me that I don't really sound that tired.

"Thank you, Master Tim. Master Dick is on the main line. I think he would truly appreciate speaking with you, since you are still awake." There's a rebuke or three in those mild words.

Ah, good old call waiting. Is it wrong of me to suspect that Alfred called the my older brother? I'm not complaining, mind you. It's just that everything seems to be moving far too fast and I have no control over any of it. Playing catch up has never been something I liked.

"I can do that." No I don't say thank you, since I'm not sure I like being set up, intentionally or otherwise. I switch lines. "Morn-"

"What the hell is going on? Alfred is beside himself!"

"-ing Dick." He sounds as frantic as he's claiming the ever proper butler is. What exactly did Alfred say to him? "Uh. I'm still trying to figure that out, actually. Bruce had a bad night, I think, and he's failing to deal." Well that about sums it up, though I doubt it will satisfy the other in the least.

I can almost hear his eyes narrowing, "How bad?" And his muscles tensing as though bracing himself for the worst. I really don't want to do this over the phone.

"He locked himself down below then took off before I got in." Keep it simple and to the point, that's safest. "Look, I don't think-"

"Yeah, I know. I'll be down in about forty minutes. You can tell me all about it then." It's a statement of fact and even if I'd been inclined to protest it wouldn't make any difference.

I'm actually relieved, though a bit concerned. It takes me an hour and a half in light traffic on my bike. How the hell is he planning on…

He hangs up before I can ask. Figures.

There is a tsking sound over my shoulder, out of the corner of my eye I can see Alfred disdainfully regarding my hands. "Dare I ask who's face you were visualizing?" I scowl. He doesn't really deserve it, but I'm not answering that. Of course, he isn't expecting one. Instead the man gets to work cleaning up the mess I'd left, before busying himself in other parts of the cave. He's very careful not to be too obvious about his surveillance of…well, everything.

With a sigh I settle myself into the large computer chair and decide to use my time to look over…erm, something. There's always something new that needs to be read, absorbed, catalogued. Something.

Alfred didn't ask this time. He just appears beside the chair and puts a laden breakfast tray down. I wince at the sheer amount of food. I'm a growing boy but good grief.

The man doesn't say anything before turning on his heel. He will have some choice words for me if I don't eat it all.

Leaning forward I fold my arms on the console and lay my head down.

I don't even remember closing my eyes, yet the next thing I know is there's a hand on my right shoulder, not actually shaking me. My mind snaps awake in an instant, searching, identifying, reviewing. The computer keys are no doubt making interesting indentations on the left side of my forehead. Damn, I feel asleep in the Cave.

Sitting up I blink sleepily at the person standing over me. It's not Alfred. The concern on Dick's face is almost comical to my fatigued mind. I must have managed a little smile because some of the tension eases. "Hey." I try to pretend that didn't come out almost slurred.

"Hey yourself." There are way to many frown lines on his brow.

"Uh…sorry. I…" Come on brain, time to engage.

"Lets go upstairs and get some coffee. Then I want you to start from the beginning." Well, that sounds reasonable enough. Except that I really don't want an audience for this. Hell, I'm not sure I can even put it into words, not any that would make sense. That and the fact I feel, justifiably, guilty.

Right. I need to get up now. I can tell by the look on his face that Dick sees the wince as I stand. Oh yeah, this is just going to be so much fun to explain. I bat away his hands as I force my body to cooperate. I've functioned with far graver "injuries" then this and damned if I'm going to telegraph any of it.

"I'm fine," I mutter irritably as I head for the stairs. It's not fair, I shouldn't be taking my self-recrimination out on Dick. "Sorry." I'm speaking over my shoulder as we head up. "I'm just. It's complicated and stupid and I have a feeling that I really screwed things up."

"You? How? You said Bruce had a bad night." The bewilderment is not only in his voice. I can practically feel it radiating off him.

"He did. It involved me." I leave it there as we exit through the old clock in the study. There are other ways into the manor, of course, now that every thing has been unlocked but there's something to be said for sticking with tradition.

He catches me around the bicep. "Involved how?" I think Dick would have done, well something, except I'm out of his grasp and out of reach in the next moment. I don't like being manhandled. Not like that. Dick knows this, so I frown at him even as I roll my shoulders under the cape I'm not wearing. "Jesus, Tim. Talk to me." His wonderful rich, sky blue eyes are stormy now, swirling with emotions he has no intention of hiding even if he could.

"Coffee." I don't wait for him to agree, I just turn on my heel and head for the kitchen. I can imagine the look on my big brother's face; the concern probably overrides the annoyance, but not by much.

I can smell the delightful aroma of high octane liquid awareness before we get to the kitchen. Bless you, Alfred. The man is in the kitchen polishing silverware that really doesn't need it at all. To those that don't know him, he's the picture of bland competence. To me, his eyes are pinched with worry and his motions betray a certain amount of nervousness. I've really been doing a piss poor job of handling this.

Sliding into a chair at the small kitchen table I slumped down with a stifled groan, head in hands. Someone waves a steaming cup of much needed coffee under my nose. Taking it, I all but burn my mouth with the first gulp. Perfect.

Legs of a chair scrape on the linoleum as Dick settles down beside me. A large hand grasps my shoulder, doing a wonderful job of kneading my corded muscles. Not that it accomplishes anything, but the gesture is appreciated.

"Okay. Talk," he says. I can't delay any longer.

Sitting up I look to both of them. They are waiting on me and I…I'm working my jaw, not yet saying anything. Come on Boy Wonder, just get it over with.

"Last night, Bruce successfully dealt with Ivy. I'm not sure how or why, but he got dosed with her pollen and our standard anti-toxin proved insufficient." They can figure this out, right? I'm not going to have to say it, am I?

"And?" That's Dick, of course he's not going to let me off the hook that easily.

"And." I lick my lips, trying to think of how best to phrase things. "When he came back to the cave he-" No, don't hide behind the coffee cup. Don't take a sip. Just get on with it. "He assaulted me." Yes, that's a sufficient word.

"Are you injured, Master Timothy?" The quietly fretful voice reminds me who is listening. Oh god, I can't do this.

"Nothing some sleep won't cure, Alfred." Well that's honest enough. I turn to look at him and try to smile. I don't think it's as reassuring as I want it to be. Dick's frown is almost palatable.

"Assaulted. How?" Of course he'd ask that.

"How do you think, Dick?" I can't get my voice above the level of a whisper.

"He..! He..!" Looking up, I pale. I can see his assumption in his face. Shock, horror and then fury. Oh no.

"I chose to stay."

The silence in the room seems to stretch on forever. I work to keep my posture something approaching straight, even though I want more then anything to hide. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I wonder how I can convince Alfred to be elsewhere.

Dick has finally clued in. "Alfred could you give us a minute?"

"Of course, Master Dick," the butler intones, courteous as ever. I see the look he gives Dick as moves to take himself elsewhere. He's going to find out what's going on one way or another. Probably by interrogating my older brother. I can live with that, better him then me.

For his part, Dicks nods and waits until the man has not only left the room but taken himself up to the second floor before leaning towards me. "Tim…" Again the hand is on my shoulder. No, I'm pulled into a full on hug and he's stroking my back. I'm sure he's trying to be soothing.

"Tim…" The hand moves up into my hair, massaging and I sigh. Of course he knows what will turn me to goo.

"The anti-toxin didn't work," I repeated. "He came in and… He gave me opportunities to get away, the best he could. I should have taken it, I should have grabbed the tranqs or some more anti-toxin or something! But I stayed put, I let him because….because…" I don't know when I'd leaned into Dick's shoulder, or when the tears started.

"He raped you." The voice is utterly emotionless.

"No!" I sit bolt upright and have to wonder what Dick is seeing as he searches my face. "You can't rape the willing. And that's the problem, I let it happen! You know what he's like, you know how he's going to react." My cheeks are wet, and I wonder, are the tears are still flowing? Does it really mater?

"Shhh. Tim, it'll be okay. We'll talk to him," he assures me. Do I look as sceptical as I feel? Dick actually grins. "Even if we have to chase him down and hog tie him."

Now I have to smile as well, listening to him echo my own thoughts on the matter. He takes my hands in his own and give them a squeeze.

"Are you okay? Did he hurt you," is the next earnest question.

I shake my head. "Only in the best way," I tell him softly, again trying to smile. This time I can feel it in my eyes.

Dick's smile widens, which should be against the laws of physics. "So," he draws the word out suggestively. "How was it?" The bastard is wiggling his eyebrows at me. I give an exaggerated eye roll in response before smacking his shoulder. Hard. That earns me a laugh, his hands coming up in mock defence. Then I'm pulled into another hug. More then that, he carefully gets me into his lap and just snuggles as only the tactile acrobat can.

I sigh and lean into it accepting the comfort of his every touch. Right now I just feel so insubstantial. Empty. How could I have made such a stupid mistake?

"Stop that!" He tells me with gentle force and then nips the ridge of my ear. That get's my attention. I sit up a little, just enough to look at him. "You're very obvious when you're kicking yourself, little brother," he explains softly, the thumb of one hand coming up and playing across my lower lip.

"There's no point in your fretting over what happened. You can't change the past, and we won't find him until nightfall at least."

"But-" I protest, which only gets a finger pressed to my lips.

"We are not going to search until nightfall. He needs some space and YOU need some sleep." Those blue eyes are trying very hard to imitate Alfred and I have the absurd urge to giggle. "You know he's not going to forgo his patrol. It'll be our best chance to catch him." Leaning against his shoulder, I mutely acquiesce to his reasoning even though part of me is railing against it.

"I just," I begin, only to fall silent with a frown. "He'll convince himself of all kinds of things in the meantime."

Dick sobers, but the quiet petting doesn't stop. "He's had more then enough time to do that already. And there's no way you are in any shape to chase him through sewers or other such, even if he lets us figure out which cave or safe house he's holed up in."

I don't want to admit that he's right. I've fought through worse then this, several times. Of course the circumstances then usually involved the possibility of imminent death for myself or some innocent.

When Dick tries to pick me up, I wriggle out of his grasp and glare at him. He is most certainly not going to carry me up to my bed. I level a glare at the man and he has the audacity to grin as he puts a strong arm about my shoulders, steering me towards the stairs. A part of me is still screaming that we should be working on how to find Bruce but between basic logic and Dick's physical presence I do my best to tamp it down. I don't think I'm going to be able to get to sleep given the way my heart is now thumping with adrenaline for a chase that will not happen for at least another twelve hours.

And with the recriminations I can't shut out.

Logic doesn't often make much of an impact when it comes to feelings.

As Dick push/pulls me into my bed, I realize that I'm still in my civies and make an effort to at least get the boots off. Apparently I'm not allowed to do that. One large hand is pushing me to lie down on the bed as the other takes hold of my left foot, putting it in his lap when he sits down on the thick duvet.

"Just close your eyes," he tells me while working on the laces. He obviously hasn't noticed that my eyes are already shut. I can vaguely note him tugging the hiking boot off and the pads of his strong thumbs working the arch of my right foot, but it has an oddly far away feel to it. The last thought I have before sleep claims me is to wonder which of them had drugged my so-called coffee.

(End)


	6. Brothers 2

At the first beep I'm up, the covers sloughing off me. I'm reaching for the phone before I even identify what the hell woke me up in the first place. Some things are just that ingrained. Even as I'm saying, "Yeah?" I'm thinking about what kind of emergency could have someone calling me that 8:30am. Everyone who knows me, knows damn well that I'm sleeping until ten. Nor is anyone going to tempt my wrath after that incident with Roy, fuzzy cuffs and a peacock feather.

"Master Dick, I do apologize for waking you, but I fear there is potentially something of a family emergency."

Alfred? This guy practically raised me. I know his stoic ways, so of course if he's saying there's a possible problem, there is a definitely a problem and it likely means one or more of the family is in a world of trouble. Just that fast my mind kicks into gear. "What happened?" I ask as I get up and pad over to closet.

"I'm not entirely sure. I believe it involved a fight between Master Bruce and Master Timothy." The words are wholly cordial and proper, but that's to be expected. It's the undercurrent of strain that has my attention. Of course, Bruce and Tim have had fights before, not to the degree that Bruce and I have but there's a first time for everything, I guess. "I fear that something irreparable may have transpired. Nor am I able to coax Tim to speak of it, however."

Well, that doesn't really surprise me, the kid is only slightly better at communicating his feelings then our adoptive father, which really isn't saying much.

"I see." No, actually I don't but I have every intention of changing that. "Any chance I can talk to him?" Talking is good and I'm one of the few people that can cajole our little bird into being honest. At least that's the theory. Exactly how honest he is with me is questionable; the kid is a damn good liar.

"Yes of course, just a moment please." The words are as ever perfectly proper, but there is a note of utter relief that sends a nasty chill down my spine. Just how bad was this mystery event?

There is a clicking sound and then I hear Timmy's voice. "Morn-"

"What the hell is going on? Alfred is beside himself!" Okay, so that came out a lot more panicked then I intended. I'll just blame it on sleep deprivation if anyone asks.

"-ing Dick." There is a pause as he seems to digest things. Or perhaps he's just trying to organize his thoughts. "Uh. I'm still trying to figure that out, actually. Bruce had a bad night, I think, and he's failing to deal."

Uh-huh. Why do I get the feeling that is the under statement of the decade? This time I take myself in hand and keep my voice something approaching calm. I hope. "How bad?" My eyes narrow as I try to process both what is and isn't being said. Sometimes, subtext is much more important then what is actually mentioned.

"He locked himself down below, then took off before I got in." Come on kiddo, it's a clean line. Give me something to work with here. "Look, I don't think-"

We shouldn't be doing this over the phone. I know; I even agree, but damn it! Fine, face to face is better anyhow. Maybe I can tickle him into submission. "Yeah, I know. I'll be down in about forty minutes. You can tell me all about it then."

I hang up before he can say anything else. Huh. I'm getting as bad as Bruce. No, I'm not quite scowling about that. I recognize the path of my thoughts, it's a defence mechanism. I've been down this road way too many times; some of the hurts have scabbed over, while others are still very raw. I don't want to do it again, but I also can't just give up on my family. Hell, if it is was just Bruce, that would be enough to get me down there. This time however, it involves Tim and that is just not right. The kid is best of us at handling Bruce and his blasted issues. So exactly how bad are things, I wonder yet again.

Looking at my closet I toss the cordless receiver carelessly back towards the rumpled blankets. Best to get the suit back on since I fully intend to take out my glider and make all speed to Gotham. Moving to the bathroom, I splash some water on my face and pretend I'm wake. No, I'm definitely awake, I can feel the adrenalin surging through me.

Getting ready doesn't take long, nor does the trip down. It does, however, last more then long enough for me to start fretting. Not that such stupidity does any good, but... well... What can I say? It's my nature. It's also Bruce and Timmy. I care for them both so damn much, it's painful. If this is over something stupid, I swear to God that I'm going to kill one or both of them.

Oh hell! Did Bruce fire the kid? If that's the case, then he's really going to be hearing from me.

By the time I bring the sleek craft in for a landing through one of the cliff entrances, I've managed to almost work myself to the point of frothing at the mouth. Removing myself from the modified hang glider, I walk into the main area, my eyes looking for anything out of place. Everything is as it should be. Would it make more sense if the place had been trashed? There's certainly a precedent for such an occurrence when it comes to my fights with Bruce.

Nor is there any sign of the man himself. That really doesn't surprise me. It also doesn't comfort me any.

Alfred is puttering around, cleaning... and using that quiet dignity of his to disguise the fact that he's hovering like a mother hen. It takes me a moment to spot the Cave's other occupant slumped over the console of the main computer, fast asleep. Huh. Well it is that time of day when all good little bats get some shut eye.

Even at the ripe old age of seventeen, Tim hasn't grown all that much and it's still easy to miss him, especially with the bulk of the oversize chair between us. For a moment, I remember other times when I found his younger self in a similar position. I'm temped to pick him up, as I used to back in the day, and carry him up to his bed. Or perhaps not. He'd probably be more annoyed by the gesture then anything else, and we do have something of a serious nature to discuss.

Right. I'll just put it off a moment longer.

I move over to where Alfred is organizing the already tidy costume locker. "Morning, Alfred." I offer him a tentative wave and smile. His return nod is noticeably clipped. "Any new developments?"

"I fear not, young sir," he informs me gravely. There is no hint of his usual dry wit, which is possibly even more worrying then if he were actively having hysterics. "He," the man nods toward the computer, "fell asleep shortly after your conversation and I haven't had the heart to wake him."

Of course you didn't, Alfred. Getting us to actually sleep is one of your main goals in life. That and the fact the kid sleeps like an exhausted, dark haired angel… Yeah, I don't blame you at all.

I reach out a hand and give the old man's shoulder a friendly, and hopefully, reassuring squeeze. "If you'll get us some breakfast, I'll wake him up, find out what's going on, and then make sure he gets some real sleep."

There is something in Alfred's eye that I don't quite understand or trust. It's not that the Wayne family retainer isn't trustworthy. He is, absolutely and without reservation. It's just that he has no problem going to extremes when it comes to making sure his charges actually see to their own needs. Anyone want to take bets on his drugging the kid's food or something? Well, if he doesn't, I may very well do so myself. Depending on what Tim has to tell me about what happened, of course.

The fact that Alfred might even be considering what is, in fact, an extreme action sends a chill of worry down my spine. Again.

"A splendid plan, sir," the man agrees before he heads up the stairs.

I wish I had as much confidence in that so-called plan as my old friend. For a moment more I stand there, gazing at my sleeping brother... friend… lover. Tim is so many things to me, part of my life on so many levels. It's probably a dangerous thing, really, having that depth of attachment to another. I still wouldn't trade it for the world. A little smile tugs at my lips as I watch him sleep in that unlikely position.

He really hates it when I watch him like this. Probably because I can never stop myself from teasing him about how adorable he looks. When Tim is asleep, when his conscious mind finally relaxes, his entire countenance becomes one of innocence. It's at times like these that you can see how truly young he is. All the training, all the dangers and, of course, that wonderful mind of his conspire to make him far more adult then most men twice his years. This is part of the reason I play rooftop tag with him, or drag him into a tickle war. It's just not right that someone that young should be so serious all the time.

Unfortunately, I can't dally and let him sleep, at least not until I understand the situation. With palpable regret, I move beside the chair and cup his right shoulder, applying just a little pressure. You never shake one of us awake unless there is real trouble… and unless you don't mind possibly getting decked for your efforts. A lot of our habits are rather anti-social, but they keep us alive, so no one complains too loudly.

I watch him snap into wakefulness and take stock of his surroundings before he so much as twitches a muscle. I'm smiling again. The kid is something special, to be sure. He'd have to be in order to be part of this life, but it's more then that. It's how you can see that freaky, wonderful mind of his working, cataloguing, organizing, responding.

Whatever his mind came up with, it seems to have concluded that he's safe. He sits up and I get my first full-on look at him. The smile slips and I fight the urge to cup his face while demanding to know what the bastard had done to him. It's not just the haggard expression or the bags under his eyes, it's not even the awkward discomfort he tries to hide as he moves. It's something in those midnight-blue orbs... some knowledge that is oppressively weighing on him.

Then it's gone, carefully covered up by the game face he puts on as easily as breathing. "Hey," he offers tiredly.

"Hey yourself." I can feel myself frowning and no amount of effort is changing that. Yes, I'm an over-protective big brother. That isn't changing either.

"Uh… sorry. I…"

He's terribly cute when he's incoherent with fatigue. I reach out to ruffle his hair, which has an obvious lack of product in it, leaving it soft and silky. Damn, I wish I could talk him into forgoing the obnoxious goop, though I admit that he's scaled the amount back as he gets older. Great, I'm wool gathering. Mind on your job, Grayson. "Let's go upstairs and get some coffee. Then I want you to start from the beginning."

That's right, keep your tone level, be supportive but take change. The kid does a fantastic job on his own, but he responds very well to someone else taking over, as long as they are reasonable about it. Unreasonable orders are balked at.

Another look crosses his face before he manages to hide it. Guilt? Timmy, what on earth do you have to feel guilty about? I'm betting whatever it is has nothing to do with falling asleep in the cave.

When he finally manages to stand, there is no disguising that twinge of his. Now, in our lives, we take a lot of hits that result in more then our fair share of injuries. However this, combined with the guilt, is making for a truly frustrating puzzle.

Reflexively, I reach out to steady him, only to have my hands swatted aside. The frown is back and I don't try to fight it. "I'm fine," he tells me, obviously irritated. My frown deepens. The kiddo is as bad as Bruce when it comes to hiding how serious the damage is. In the past, he's said he was fine after things that would have sent grown men to the hospital. I'm so not buying that one.

Then... "Sorry," he offers, actually looking something like contrite as he glances over his shoulder at me, all the while continuing toward the stairs. "I'm just… It's complicated and stupid and I have a feeling that I really screwed things up."

It feels like my eyebrows want to make a home in my hairline. "You? How?" Tim is the most conscientious and detail-oriented person I know. We all screw up at some point or other, but this just isn't making any sense. Wait, no, stay on target here. I need to get a feel for the big picture first, and then we'll work on the details. "You said that Bruce had a bad night," I prompt him helpfully.

"He did. It involved me."

Would it be bad if I throttled him? Just a little? I could revive him afterwards. I have to make my hands stop clenching and flexing as we continued to walk, exiting through the clock and into the study. Squelching the urge to scream my frustration to all and sundry, I reach out, grabbing his arm to hold him there, and ask, "involved, how?"

I almost forget the question altogether as I blink and discover that Tim is out of my grasp and halfway across the room. What the hell? Oh, right. Smooth, Dick, really smooth. Tim has his rules about touching and I just transgressed. Well, too damn bad. "Jesus, Tim. Talk to me." The words are somewhere between a plea and an order.

I watch his face and I can see something there. There's a moment when I think he's going to tell me, but it's quickly gone. "Coffee," he says and pivots on his heel to head for the kitchen.

Oh, Tim. Well, fine. Coffee isn't far away. I can smell it long before we get to the doorway. Normally I'd be salivating at this point, but not this time. All my attention is on Tim and on what he's not telling me. I barely even notice where Alfred is as we enter. My little brother settles at the table, so I go to the counter and… oh. There's a steaming mug ready. I grab that and carefully put it into Tim's hands. "Right, you've got your coffee, now let's hear it." I pull a wooden chair close to the boy's own and lean my elbows on the table, so very obviously waiting.

He takes a sip and it's nearly obscene how much comfort he derives from the scalding liquid. I reach out with one hand and start working the tension out of the nearest shoulder.

"Okay, talk." I'm trying really hard not to growl at him. Honest.

Tim sits up and looks first to me, and then to Alfred, who is working on the silverware. The gaze is heavy and full of meaning. Meaning which I'm not paying much attention to at the moment. Come on, kiddo, just tell me!

"Last night, Bruce successfully took down Ivy. I'm not sure how or why, but he ended up dosed with those spores of hers, and our standard anti-toxin didn't even make much of a dent." Finally! Except that he's leaving something out. The way he falls quiet and looks at the top of the table indicates he thinks he's said enough. Not bloody likely.

A dark, drawled word hangs in the air. "And?" Oh, that's me. I'm starting to sound testy. Best try to reign that in.

"And," that small pink tongue flicks out as he licks his lips. I don't think he's stalling this time-he's trying to figure out how best to say whatever is running through that oh-so-precise mind of his. "When he came back to the cave he..." There's an abortive move toward the coffee mug before him, as if he's restraining himself from taking a sip. "He assaulted me."

The words hang heavily between us and it takes a moment for them to parse; even then, I can't really grasp it. Or maybe my mind is just refusing to be cooperative. Thankfully, Alfred is more with it then I am.

"Are you injured, Master Timothy?"

I don't see the little jump, but I feel it through his shoulder. He'd forgotten that the Englishman was still there with us. I'm frowning… again. That has to be my quota for the month.

"Nothing some sleep won't cure, Alfred." I know that smile. It's the one he uses when he's trying to convince other people that he's just a happy, well-adjusted kid. This, of course, means that the reality is anything but.

I'm still trying to get this all to make sense in my head. "Assaulted how?"

"How do you think, Dick?" I can barely hear the words, but his resentment at my continuing to ask about it is unmistakable.

Then it clicks. Oh. Oh! My eyes widen and I know I'm sputtering. "He..! He..!" Oh dear God, no.

Whatever he's seeing in my face makes him pale visibly as he informs me, "I chose to stay." Say what?

You could have heard a pin drop after that statement. For his part, Tim looks like he wants to sink through the floor. I hear the shuffle of shoes on the floor behind us. Alfred. Right. "Alfred, can you give us a minute?"

"Of course, Master Dick," the man says, nothing in his voice hinting at what he'd just heard. We might as well have been talking about the weather. However, when his eyes find mine, I know that he expects me to be filling him in later. I nod and wait for him to leave before turning my attention back to Tim.

I'm giving his shoulder rhythmic little squeezes, trying to offer support. "Tim…" Aw hell. I pull him into a proper hug, folding him in close so that I can run one hand up and down his back in large, broad strokes. It's not enough, the tension just seems to ratchet higher. "Tim…" My other hand goes into the boy's hair. His scalp is sensitive and I know just where to caress so that he goes almost boneless in my arms. It's going to be okay. Somehow, we'll make it okay, I silently promise him.

"The anti-toxin didn't work," the boy repeated. "He came in and… he gave me opportunities to get away the best he could. I should have taken them. I should have grabbed the tranks or some more anti-toxin or something! But I stayed put, I let him because… because…"

My stomach is clenching painfully with the realization of what has happened here, in the place that should be safe as no other can be. "He raped you." There, it's said. A part of me had thought that the speaking of it would help somehow, but instead the dark reality of it descends like a shroud.

"No!" He moves so fast that he pulls out of my hold and sits upright on his chair. He's looking at me, horror on his face. I can't tell if it is because I dared to say such a thing, or because of what it suggests about Bruce. Certainly not for himself, at least not as a victim. I'm about to ask the obvious when he continues softly, "You can't rape the willing." He takes a shuddering breath. "That's the problem, I let it happen." He stresses the words to emphasize his culpability. "You know what he's like." The words race on at an almost frantic pace even as tears begins streaming down the pale cheeks. "You know what he's like," the boy pleads with me, "you know how he'll react."

He's right. I do. That it was with his partner will be one hang up. That his partner is underage will be another. That it happened without apparent consent, his own or Tim's, will be a third. It's going to be a mess alright, but we'll worry about that latter. Right now, I have my arms full again as I hug Tim close.

"Shhhh..." I soothe as I try to work out how to deal with an upset Robin. Of course: focus on what's working him into knots. "We'll talk to him." Oh yes, we will, whether Bruce likes it or not.

I let the boy up a little so that I can see his face and I have to smile as something occurs to me. "Even if we have chase him down and hog-tie him." There, now my little brother is smiling too, though he still looks uncertain. Releasing him from the hug, I take his smaller hands in my larger ones and give them a squeeze.

We aren't done yet. There's still a question that needs an answer. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?" I coax carefully.

He shakes his head. "Only in the best way possible," come the soft words. There is the smallest of smiles on his lips, but far more telling is the way those dark blue eyes dance. Something uncomfortably tight inside me begins to relax. I feel my own smile broadening to answer Tim's.

Okay, we're over that hurdle, but it's still going to be ugly to deal with so the best play is to fall back on the patented Dick Grayson maneuver. I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively and mock leer. "So, how was it?" The smile only widens as Tim rolls his own in response, playing along with the joke. Then he smacks my shoulder and I'm laughing as I mock defend myself. It's a good sound.

I also just have to pull him in for another hug, one that requires he be on my lap, carefully helping him to arrange himself so I can cuddle the youth close. Timmy sighs and leans into it; no matter what else is going on, all is right with the world for the moment. Then the moment passes as the boy starts to frown and tense up once more.

"Stop that," I order in my best mother hen voice even as I nip the ridge of his ear. Tim sits up a little and turns a questioning look my way. I have to smile. "You're very obvious when you're kicking yourself, little brother." I reach up one hand and gently touch his lips, stroking them as I think it all through once more. "There's no point in your fretting over what happened. You can't change the past, and we won't find him until nightfall at least."

Of course he protests with a futile little, "But..." So obviously, I just have to press those fingers a little harder to his lips. He obediently falls silent and I savour that minor victory.

"We aren't going to search until nightfall," I repeat, holding his eyes with mine to make sure he hears me. Oh he does, and he's really not happy about it. Time to drive the point home. "HE needs some space and YOU need some sleep." That's really an understatement in both cases. The most cursory of looks shows that the kiddo is literally running on fumes at this point. Yet he still looks like he's ready to laugh about something. Yup, he's beyond tired.

In any case, this is Tim, the one who prizes logic. I can work with that.

"You know he's not going to forgo patrol," I state as reasonably as possible and am relieved to see it registering in those far-too-old, deep blue eyes. "It'll be our best chance to catch him." Tim gives the smallest of nods as his lips purse in that not-quite-frown of his that means he's thinking something through, possibly to an unpleasant conclusion. I don't have to wait long before he tells me.

"I just..." The expression turns into a true frown now and I have to resist the urge to stroke away the little crease on his brow. "He'll convince himself of all sorts of things in the meantime," the small, heavy words come.

I can feel my smile waver, then fade. Tim's right, of course, it's just a given since that's what Bruce does. That he'll be wrong in this instance is neither here nor there. Without thinking about it, I continue to stroke Tim's jaw, soothing him in the way I know best.

Right, back to logic. "He's had more then enough time to do that already." I give him a stern, appraising look. He may not have broken bones or dislocated joints but it doesn't matter. "And there's no way you're in any shape to chase him through sewers or other such, even if he lets us figure out which cave or safe house he's at."

Oh he really doesn't like being reminded of that fact. Am I bad person because I find that tired, scowling pout of his far too cute? I just have to smile and hug him, which puts me in the perfect position to scoop him up. Or so the theory goes, but it's like trying to hold a squirming cat, one made out of tooth paste. With a foot between us, he's glaring at me again. Randomly, I wonder what he'd look like with cat ears and a tail. Okay, really need to stop that, especially since I'm fairly sure the grin I'm wearing is downright idiotic.

Closing the distance between us, I settle for putting an arm about his shoulders and gently but firmly turning him towards the door of the kitchen and the stairs beyond. I can feel the tension running through him, like he's ready to spring away from me at any moment. I shift ever so slightly, to make that as difficult as possible. Eventually, he mutely signals his resignation to the situation, but the tension remains.

Getting him up the stairs and onto his bed isn't difficult, which is one really big clue that something just… yeah. The slowed reactions as he tries to undo his hiking boots, the fact that he lets me lay him down on the bed and deal with the laces myself in the next only further reinforce the point. Thank you, Alfred. Tim will want to have words with you later, but for now, thanks.

"Just close your eyes," I say softly as I get the boots off, and begin working on Tim's feet through the socks. It's another thing that he really can't resist, and combined with whatever was in the 'coffee,' it puts the boy out like a light.

Carefully moving him, I get us both under the comforter and curl up with my little brother. Silently, I promise him that it's going to work out. Somehow, someway, no matter what it takes. It has to. And if I have to give Bruce a concussion in the process, well I can live with that.

(End)


	7. Alfred's Interlude

What a bloody mess. Of course, I should be used to it by now. Master Bruce's emotional immaturity issues and lack of social graces are nothing new. The man can be insufferable; of that there is no doubt. This time, however, he's really outdone himself.

At first, I'd been under the impression that it had simply been a tiff between himself and his youngest adoptive son. Such things are not unheard of, though I admit such has seemed unlikely in the last little while. Actually things have been positively cordial. It's also worth noting that Master Timothy has quite a gift for handling Bruce and his assorted moods.

The tiff theory swiftly went out the window when I found the cave entrance locked and a quick check showed Tim working diligently to by-pass the security system. Worried as I was, I had to smile. The lad's resourcefulness and determination is something to admire. As is his fierce devotion to the man and his Mission. Sometimes I wonder where it comes from. Perhaps from the same place as my own?

Master Bruce, you are a fool, but you shall ever be our fool. For some inexplicable reason we care about you. It would be extremely nice if you were to let us in once in a while. But no, you are determined to endure your self-imposed suffering alone.

Perhaps, if you did let us in, there would be less pain for everyone. Communication would go a very long way to alleviate many woes. Even so, I'm really not sure what would have prevented this particular disaster.

I will admit, to myself at least, that I shamelessly listened to the boy trying to converse with Bruce through the locked bedroom door. Unfortunately, Tim is very adept at using obscure phrasing, so that without context, it's far to easy for the words to refer to any number of things. Still, what could have happened that Master Bruce would consider 'bad'? After all the years of watching him train his various partners, I have witnessed many things that most sane people would consider 'bad' treated as perfectly normal.

All of which leaves me feeling more then a bit fretful and not for the first time. While my position is that of manservant, it's never been that simple, partially because of who Master Bruce is and what he does, but also because of who I am and what I do. Tim is a child of my heart, as is Dick and poor, ill-fated Jason. It can't be unreasonable that I feel protective towards any of them. It's a feeling I harbour towards Bruce as well, which creates some awkward situations. Taking sides is never a good thing.

It is taking an abominably long time for the boy to open the Cave. No, I shall not panic. However calling in assistance is perhaps a wise thing at this point.

Dick is a delight; despite all he's been through, the light in him still shines ever so brightly. Likewise, he feels things acutely rather then numbing himself to the world. I fear that my call has worked him up into a bit of a state. Oh well, there is no help for it.

I'm sorely tempted to listen in on the conversation between the two boys, yet I carefully do nothing of the sort. Such will not be necessary, not with Master Dick coming down. Tim can be extremely obstinate and reticent in his own ways. His enthusiastic and expressive older bother on the other hand has no defence against me. I shall get to the bottom of this soon enough.

That resolve is sorely tested as I enter the Cave, only to find the boy hunched unhappily in the chair before the main computer, his bare knuckles reduced to so much raw hamburger. A look at the fresh blood on the punching bag has me clenching my jaw and muttering about the folly of youth. Not what one would call a good sign. I cluck my tongue. "Dare I ask whose face you were visualizing," I inquire with my customary dryness, striving to keep things as normal as possible; all my charges take a great deal of comfort in the familiar.

The only answer I receive is a scowl. It says something about his state of mind that he doesn't hide behind his habitual game face.

I give a large sigh that is only slightly exaggerated, and then turn to clean up the mess on the heavy bag.

There is always much to be done in and under the Manor, so it's not hard to keep myself busy within the Cave. This, of course, allows me

to keep a dutiful eye on the boy. For a little while, he appears to be working at the computer. However, a lack of movement draws my attention. The lad is laying with his cheek on the console, semi-pillowed by one arm. I do my best to quell the rise of more then a few uneasy feelings. He a smart lad, and he would have alerted me to any injuries he sustained, given how he is not possessed of his mentor's stoic masochism. Instead, he is very good about taking care of himself. I devoutly hope his current state is merely the result of exhaustion.

Master Dick's arrival is truly something of a relief. Cheeks flushed and eyes bright, if worried, he pauses as he takes notice of the napping boy, but continues on toward my position. As Master Bruce would say, a good soldier. As I say, a properly concerned brother. Ours is a strange and peculiar family, but a family just the same. So it makes perfect sense that he should seek to gain as much information from me as possible. Given that I have every intention of doing the same to him in the near future, it is only fair to share both my lack of understanding and my speculations.

It's not until a little while later, in the kitchen, that I am finally able to put at least some of those theories to rest. Unfortunately, what I hear is far worse then anything I had imagined. Master Bruce is capable of much, but sexual advances toward his young partner? I would have said it was impossible except that I'm clearly wrong.

No, it's apparently far more then mere advances, although I'm having a ghastly time conceptualizing the situation. I can feel myself pale and am almost grateful when Master Dick requests that I take myself elsewhere. Even so, I can't simply ignore what I have learned, nor it's horrific implications for everyone involved. If I am to be honest with myself, my first uncharitable thought is how stupid the lord of the manor is. Timothy likely believes himself to be subtle, and realistically I doubt anyone other then myself would have noticed, but his affections for Bruce have been obvious since he was fourteen. Similarly, Bruce's interest is certainly there, and yet, so is that iron clad will. What I know of the man tells me that he wouldn't voluntarily act on those feelings. Heaven knows, he's had more then enough practice denying his feelings.

So, to have their first encounter occur under such circumstances… Well, 'dreadful' is truly an understatement. Upon considering the matter further, I conclude that of both them are victims and that blame is something is best left out of the equation. Master Bruce will be blaming himself enough as is. And what of the boy?

I'm honestly at a loss. I know that Tim can, and will, hide his feelings under that stoic mask he's perfected over the years. It's a dangerous thing, really, since his inclination to internalize will only allow it to fester. Another reason to be thankful for Master Dick's presence. Perhaps, he can entice the youth to speak the unspeakable.

I allow them an hour before I peek into Master Timothy's room. The image of the two curled up is truly heart warming and for a moment, I can forget the disastrous situation. The younger of the pair is curled in on himself, not quite in a fetal position, against Dick's chest. For his part the gymnast is practically wrapped about his brother, his mouth buried in the soft fall of the boy's hair.

For a moment, I debate which course of action to follow. It is when I'm about the close the door that Dick rolls his head around to look at me. Those deep, sapphire eyes hold a world of understanding and meaning, of dark things that must be said. I nod my acknowledgement and retreat from the room. Soon, I shall have my answers, and then perhaps I can think of a way to deal with the inevitable fallout. It is a role that I fear I've become all too practiced at.

Only a few moments pass before Master Dick joins me in the hall. Some part of me takes great comfort in his easy smile. The man is a terrible liar, with his body constantly betraying his real thoughts, so that smile does much to alleviate my fears. My shoulders and jaw relax a little.

"Can I interest you in tea and cookies, Master Dick?" No point in neglecting basic civility. The easy smile becomes and appreciative grin. The day he turns down the offer of cookies the world will surely be at its end.

"Absolutely, though you don't have to bribe me into telling you what I found out," he assures me, as he walks casually by my side.

I affect a disdainful sniff. "I would never stoop to bribery, sir."

His eyes dance as the man continues to grin at me. "Of course you wouldn't," he plays along. "Just like you wouldn't drug Timmy's coffee to make sure he gets some rest instead of running off after Bruce."

I stop half way down the stairs to level a glare at Master Bruce's erstwhile ward, putting my honest incredulous disbelief into the words. "I beg your pardon?" The look of shock on his face is almost too much, but I hang onto my quiet indignation.

"Wha-? You mean you didn't? I could have sworn that you, cuz… he…" The babbling trails off ineffectually.

"Certainly not," I inform him haughtily, taking some perverse pleasure in the young man's obvious discomfort. It is only fair after he presumed to imply such a horrific notion. To do so before knowing the particulars of the situation would be unforgivable. Now, had the boy not properly passed out under his bother's administrations, then, and only then should I have contrived some other way to induce the much need sleep.

Dick runs a flustered hand through his shaggy hair and huffs a bit before conceding the point. "I guess he really was just that tired." With that we resume our trek back to the kitchen.

Taking a seat at the table, the young man helps himself to the plate of still warm cookies waiting for him. I pour us both cups of tea before joining him and wait quietly. Twenty-four years old and yet, one could swear he's ten again as he munches his chocolate chip prize. Some things never change. Some things do, however, and I need to find out how.

Not that I am required to actually say anything. I simply sit at the table, hands folded on the wooden surface, and wait. Dick reaches for his fourth cookie. Enough. I purposely raise an eyebrow.

"Uh. Yeah, well…" He looks positively sheepish. Then the words begin to spill from his mouth as I knew they would. "Bruce is in a state because he had sex with Tim."

Well, that was certainly to the point. "I trust there is more to it then that," I drawl sardonically, my gaze never wavering.

"'Course." There's a heavy sigh, though I don't think it has anything to do with what needs to be said. "You know Bruce's issues better then I do. So I'm sure you can guess where his head is at." I nod. I can, but I still need more information.

"Do we know anything about the toxin of which Master Timothy spoke?"

A shake of the head. "Not yet. Bruce had the computer start running some tests on a sample of his blood before he left. It'll be another few hours at least. Still, if it was really bad, he would have called someone in to make sure he wasn't a danger to anyone else."

It's a workable theory, though, when we are speaking of the man who nightly dons a cape and cowl, there are no guarantees. His mind and will are remarkable things, yet he is still only human, much as he would prefer to ignore that fact. My lips purse in thought. I let the half-formed musings pass and decide to focus on other issues. "How is Tim?"

How odd. Dick both smiles and tenses, a very conflicted reaction. The one time police officer is playing with his tea cup and avoids my gaze.

"He says he's fine, and that…" The young man stops and… Oh my. That's a scowl. "He blames himself. Not for Bruce being poisoned, of course. But for not leaving when he could. If he could."

For not…? Well, that's an interesting turn of phrase. I remained seated, calm and composed. If my time with this odd assortment of individuals has taught me anything, it's how best to help its members cope with the horrific. They go out into the night, battling the deranged and deadly as a matter of course, thinking it nothing beyond a duty they have sworn themselves to serving. Yet, when it comes to pains of the heart and soul, they are particularly vulnerable. So I patch them up the very best I'm able, whether with cotton bandages or cookies and a practiced ear. For this reason, I carefully shift my position to demonstrate without words, both my interest in what he's saying and the full extent of my caring. It is the best I have to offer, at this point.

The man smiles. This time, it is a heartbreakingly false expression. I wish I could see what thoughts are running through his mind. There will be many of course. Some of them will even be about his own feelings. Mostly, though, they shall center on Bruce and Tim…and on how he could have prevented a situation he wasn't even present for. They may not be blood relations, but the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree.

"What do you intend to do?" I ask him, hoping to entice him into speaking those thoughts.

That elicits a heartfelt, gusty exhalation. "We'll have to find him, talk to him."

I can't help but arch my eyebrow again. Bruce and talking are almost mutually exclusive things on his best days. Apparently my reaction has been noted. Dick's expression of grim determination darkens. He, of course, understands better then most exactly what they are going to be facing.

"I don't suppose you have any sage words of advice?" The young man really does wear his feelings on his sleeve. Right now, he looks far too young and far too desperately hopeful.

It's my turn to frown. Mind you, I've been privy to the man's approach toward the world almost since the cradle, yet this time, I have to admit to feeling very much out of my depth. Oh, I have some very choice words in mind should he ever return to the Manor, however, such requires that Nightwing and Robin can convince the Bat to come back.

"Well, should you ever be able to actually speak to him, I think it's paramount that young Master Timothy and yourself speak your feelings without pain or accusation. Master Bruce will be able to supply more then enough of both on his own. I should also think that avoiding a shouting match would be prudent." Clearly, I haven't told him anything particularly illuminating. "As for how you get him to hold still long enough to have the opportunity..." I shrug expressively. It's not quite true that I have no ideas on the latter score, but I have never given my boys easy answers. Instead, I do my best to help them come to their own understandings. Such things are far more effective in the long run. "Perhaps if you were to tell me of your tentative plans?"

"You mean beyond cornering him on some rooftop?" He's wears the shamefaced, lopsided grin that fairly screams guilt, having been caught with his pants down as it were. I nod. "Well, he and Tim really need to talk, and by that I mean they need to hear each other. Tim's smart; he already knows a lot of the reasons why Bruce behaves the way he does, but…Bruce is…"

He's frowning again. I'd like to join him in that expression but I remain quietly impassive and simply listen.

"He might be the world's greatest detective, but he can be damned thick." I'm not particularly successful at suppressing the quirk of my lips. After all, I have thought that every thing to myself a time or two.

"He is very good at ignoring the affections of those around him," I offer quietly. I wonder if Master Dick is aware that his particular feelings towards the man have been obvious for many a year now. I am tempted to probe that one, but such would be intrusive and unproductive.

The way he doesn't quite jerk upright in the chair is answer enough, anyhow.

"Yeah. He is," the lad agrees.

Something tell me that our conversation is over. I gesture to the half-eaten plate of cookies. "Eat up, now. I imagine you will need the energy in the near future." I can't help but allow myself a little smile at the conspiratorial expression on the young man's face. Yes, our conversation is over, but our plans are just beginning.

End


	8. Confrontation 1

I haven't slept. I don't dare. There is too much to do. There is always something that has to be seen to, something which allows me to avoid the nightmares that await my slumbering mind. Nightmares that now have one more added to their number.

There are three unsolved cases that need my attention, but those get shelved as soon as the computer lets me know that the results of the third blood sample have been compiled and are ready. I am relieved when I look over the print out. The worst of the effects have long since dissipated; something that my own body awareness informed me of hours ago. However the test shows that there will be no lingering effects, the toxins being almost completely flushed from my system.

As soon as the results of the first test came in, I set about making a new batch of anti-toxin. We'll be needing that if Ivy escapes Arkham.

We… I close my eyes and concentrate on just breathing.

For all I know, there is no longer a "we." It's no less then I deserve. Fool! The same recriminations chase themselves around in my head. I do my best to push it all aside so that I might focus on the cases, though really, I'm not seeing the contents of the files before me. Instead, I'm merely marking time until the sun goes down and the cool night engulfs the streets; until I can head out and hunt. It won't change anything, it won't take the knowledge and pain away, but I have an oath to uphold and a city to protect. A small part of my mind laughs at the bitter irony. After all, I couldn't even protect my partner.

There is something soothing about putting the suit on. I suppose it's become a psychological trigger of sorts, a way of resetting my thoughts to the specific activity to come. In the past this has worked to separate myself from the concerns of Bruce Wayne's life, allowing a kind of distance from the all to often painful aspects of that part of myself. I didn't realize I had been counting on that effect until it failed to come to pass.

Of course, it's Batman that violated Robin. That travesty is now part of the costume and now it feels like the cowl might suffocate me.

The oath, made on their graves. Nothing else matters. It's time to go.

Sliding into the batmobile's driver seat I take comfort in the familiar feel of the engine coming to life and carefully avoid dwelling on the new associations I have for the car, particularly the hood. The marvel of engineering tears out into the night, it's time for patrol. Alone. Once more I'm alone.

It's never a good idea to get into a predictable pattern, such things make one vulnerable. But I have that which I keep a closer eye on. Same as Robin. No, that isn't true any more. Perhaps I should head east and check what used to be his sector.

The police scanner in the cowl doesn't pick up anything particularly interesting until well after midnight. Someone tripped the alarm at one of the art museums. This one happens to be three blocks from my current position. I can feel the feral grin on my face, and it's wrong. There is no joy in this and yet, there is.

I use the jump lines to get there, thrilling at the rush of air and gravity's pull, though I will admit that to no one but myself. What I find is…perplexing to say the least. Whoever these guys are, the word "subtlety" is clearly not in their vocabulary. The explosion happens seconds before my arrival, leaving the smoking hole in the loading dock doors to tell the story.

Smiling as I swing down, taking out the lone sentry they left behind; I go to work. Theatrics have their place, but more often then not, I really do work best from the shadows. After all, there is nothing more terrifying then that which can't be seen. The only way this lot will know what happened is if they look at the note I tape to the largest of the bound would-be thieves. Of course, for that, they'll have to regain consciousness first.

I don't bother to call it in, I can already hear the sirens. Time to find myself elsewhere. As I lift up into the night there is a slight queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I carefully don't examine that too closely, nor how I'm scanning the darkness, looking for a telltale flash of red.

It doesn't matter, I have to move. Muggings, an abusive john, some drug deals. Normal stuff, things I don't even have to think about. That's not good, I need to get my mind focus on…something else.

I don't hope for an Arkham escapee, I know better then to wish for that.

The night seems darker somehow, more sinister. There is a heavy feeling in the air, pregnant and waiting, as if before a storm. Part of me is almost relived when the scanner picks up a multiple gunshot call. Maybe this is what I'm feeling. Or perhaps not. In the end it doesn't matter.

Launching myself from my perch on one of the many gargoyles, I take the car. It will be a few minutes getting to Bastion park, unfortunately, and there is no further information to be had.

When I pull up, I just…don't gape. The Bat never gapes. Yet what I'm seeing is a lot more then I've ever excepted. More then I've seen in some time, actually. It's a gang war, where the hell did this come from? There had been some malcontent rumblings but nothing that would indicate a blow up of this magnitude, not with those automatic weapons and…oh no.

Not even the shielding on the batmobile is up for the anti-aircraft missile that's being pointed my way. Time to get out! Blowing the door I dive for the nearest bushes. I can feel the heat of the explosion and the only thought in my head is how Robin will be disappointed that the car is a write off.

Many have argued that when it comes to the gangs, it's best to let them kill each other off. That's not how I do things, not when the innocent are all to often caught in the crossfire. Not in my city!

The glow of what used to be my ride is casting eerie shadows in the night. For their part, the gang bangers are back to doing an effective job of depopulating themselves since they think I'm dead. Fools. Careful, silently I move, picking them off one at a time. It's a good strategy, except that there are so many. When the guns from the group I've been working through stop firing, the other lot decides to move in. Fine, I can just-

Red.

Fast moving, falling on one of the rear most men. And there, blue; slight but undeniable. I can feel my jaw clenching. Not what I wanted, I had this covered.

I'll…deal with them later. Right now there are still to many hotheads with guns. The police will be here soon. The last thing anyone needs is a shoot out with Gotham's Finest. It wouldn't be pretty, especially not when they have armour piercing rounds as the rent through the Kevlar on my thigh points out. Now, I'm annoyed.

The crunch of cartilage and bone is a satisfying thing. It almost makes up for the destruction of my car. No, it doesn't. Damnit.

Then there's no one else to hit. Robin and Nightwing are already zip-stripping the downed gang members. I move to pick up the guns and unceremoniously pile them for the police. The scanner tells me they are only a minute out. Lots of time for…too many things. A quick survey of the scene and I'm satisfied. Pulling out the grapple gun I shoot it at the nearest roof. The tenements in this area aren't that tall, but it will do. It's always better to be above street level.

I feel them more then hear them: the sound of twin grapples as they move to follow me. No. No! I can't do this, I can't. Not now. Not yet.

The words I'm expecting do not come. They are behind me, following my movements, but there is nothing more to it. For a moment, I can almost believe that it was all a horrific nightmare, that the three of us are simply out on a patrol. The moment passes. I take off at a run. I'm not trying to escape them, not really. It's just that I have to finish my rounds of the city.

I don't look back, I don't have to. I know how they move, a well oiled machine that I had a hand in training. Except it's much more then that now, they've trained each other, complimenting the other's individual style as well as my own. Somewhere, somehow, I did something right. I must have to be given such treasures in my life. They mean so much to me and I take every opportunity to torment them, bend them, waiting for them to break and fly far away from me. I can't stop. It's not safe that they are in my life; not for them, nor myself. I was wrong to steal their childhoods, to make them my soldiers. My well trained soldiers, who even now are flowing across the skyline with me, keeping watchful pace through the night.

We find some thugs in the midst of a home invasion, the home owners tied up, one of the bastards having what he probably considers 'fun' with them. That doesn't take any time. I let Robin deal with the victims, people are less threatened by him. Odd how the very thought of looking at him terrifies me.

Nightwing makes the call to the authorities. He motions for me to go, apparently intent on sticking with the frazzled couple until the official help arrives. I'm half way through the arc of my swing when I realize that Robin is right there beside me, constant soundless color. Landing on the roof, I walk to the other side and just…appraise the area. There really isn't anything to see, and I know damn well it's a transparent avoidance tactic, a futile one. Robin is right behind me. I can feel that composed silence, just being there, just waiting.

It becomes a contest, and of course he breaks first, but not with angry shouts. No, such things aren't necessary, not from him. Robin has always been able to say volumes without uttering a word. The quirk of an eyebrow, the shift of his weight, the line of his jaw.

"There is no blame, not for you."

Despite my resolve, I find myself twisting around to look at him. At least I'm able to mask my shock at the words. How on earth can he say that? And if not for me, then who? The white-out lens hide the fact that I'm searching his face for the answers I seek, but he knows regardless.

It's a small blessing that the boy doesn't try to close the distance between us and also a cruel torment. I think it would be easier if he rushed me and tried to strike out.

"I made a choice, Batman," he says in that ever calm voice of his. "You can't take the blame for that."

I say nothing. There are words that should be spoken, that need to be said, but not here. Not when there is a patrol to finish up. Duty. Duty has to come first.

"Just listen," he continues, his face so composed and so very serious, a mask in it's own right more then even the domino he sports. "I need you to hear this. Do that for me, if nothing else." It's not a request. I find myself giving the slightest of nods before I even think about it. "I'm not a child, I haven't been one for a very long time, even before I meet you. I've worked hard to be your partner, your equal. Don't slight me by thinking I can't make my own decisions."

I don't want to listen because Robin is speaking rationally and with reasoned logic. The words are too sensible, yet they don't match reality. If they were things of anger and passion, I could easily accept them, work with them, however they are not. That makes this all the more grotesque.

"You didn't screw up. I did." The too young-no too old-face is looking at me. He could be blinking behind the mask, but I doubt it. "I allowed my wants to override my better judgement. *I* put you in this position and I'm sorry."

He's apologizing to me. He…no. He can't, it's not his place. I'm the adult. I'm the one that has the training, the experience. I'm the one that has dealt with the damn effects of the toxin before. I should have…

Nightwing lands on the roof top. He doesn't smile, which is a kind of warning. There is anger there, old and new. Whatever form it might take is waylaid by Robin asking, "Where to next?"

Not that Cave, not yet.

"South, to Robinson park." There's been an increase of dealers in the area. I have every intention of leaning on the pushers until they tell me who they are working for. If some require a few broken bones to ensure their cooperation, that's fine by me.

I pretend that I don't see Nightwing's frown. Robin just nods, accepting the dictate without argument. We fly.

You'd think I'm a rank amateur the way my attention remains on the pair following my lead. And yet I can't stop the itch in my shoulder blades, the one that precedes an unseen strike, which is perfectly irrational. They won't strike me, no matter how much I deserve it.

It is another hour before I'm satisfied. I have three names now, and I can begin working on taking down the new syndicate trying to get a foot hold in my town. At no time does Nightwing or Robin try to direct our activities. They just quietly back me up, letting me take point. I'm about ready to scream. Much as I want to pretend the previous night never happened, it's disturbing that they are ignoring it entirely.

I have no doubt that Nightwing knows at least some of what happened, and I keep expecting him to lay into me. I wish he would, it'd be easier to deal then the undemanding silence they offer.

It comes as a relief when Nightwing dusts his gauntlets off loudly. "Good night's Patrol," he proclaims, probably thinking that would be the signal that we are done. I'm not finished, I have three names…

Robin is there, nodding. He issues a voice command, telling the bikes to home in on his signal. Oh, right. I'm with out transportation now. It would be a long walk home.

The chronometer in my left glove tells me it's only 3am. Still early. I frown.

As the red and blue riderless bikes pull up, I turn and leave, heading for the roofs. I think I heard a muffled curse behind me. It doesn't matter, I'm flying.

But not alone. Red and blue, again. They aren't giving up, something which really shouldn't come as a surprise. Fine.

I'm not running, I'm continuing to do my job, nothing more. The first name is known to me: Freddi Marco. He had been part of Falcone's operation, then thrown in with Black Mask. Last I'd heard, he is playing gopher for Intergang. Funny how they keep cropping up.

It's going to be a productive night, especially if I have to crack some skulls to make it so.

(End)


	9. Confrontation 2

When Tim sleeps, he is beautiful. In that moment, he is a boy like any other. I enjoy watching him while he sleeps, though my younger brother has made it emphatically clear that he hates it. It's a chance to see the boy that will never be, the one that got left behind when he joined us—Bruce and then, later, me—in our life. Or... No, he followed me to Bruce, and I have to smile at the memory of a very determined thirteen-year-old showing up at Haley's Circus.

I don't think he regrets the choice he made back then. No, I know he doesn't. Tim thrives on this life, even though it has cost him. But I can't help worrying, especially after recent events. A glance over at the clock shows that it is almost seven pm; he's been out for not quite eight hours. That's positively indulgent by our standards, but he needs it.

It's as if he heard me and is determined to be contrary. Lying next to me, he shifts and stirs. One eye cracks open and his sky-blue gaze is accusatory. My fond smile widens. "Don't worry," I mutter soothingly. "We still have about two hours before dark."

Tim tries to sit up, but the hand I have on his chest prevents him. Mostly.

"Dick, let go," he growls and I give a heavy sigh. And so it begins. Of course, nothing says removing my hand from his chest means I can't touch him elsewhere. Like his hair, which is always so much fun to ruffle. Especially when he pouts like that. It's even better when he huffs. Yeah, I'm feeling accomplished as I sit, grinning at him.

Right, I should let him up. He needs to eat and Alfred already knows Tim is awake because he's Alfred and he is aware of everything that happens in the manor. Which means, that if we don't get ourselves to the kitchen soon, he'll be walking through that door with a lecture on his lips.

Tim is doing that thing with his mouth like he's got a terrible taste he can't get rid of. I get behind him and push a little, not that he needs any encouragement. "Go on. Alfred is probably gonna have something wonderful to eat and it would be a shame if you couldn't taste it cuz of morning breath." That gets me a look that should a death glare but isn't, which really says a lot about a great many things. Some of which I don't want to examine too closely.

As he heads to the on-suite, I lie on the bed in his now-vacant warm spot. "Any dreams?" I have to ask. My little brother has managed to become quite adept at having very quiet nightmares.

"Nothing distinct," comes the somewhat garbled reply. It's an evasion and we both know it, but I let it go.

"How are you feeling now?" It sounds like such a stupid question, but it's necessary. We can't afford to assume, and mental check-ins are important-unless you're Bruce. He just pretends everything is fine and carries on. I've been working hard to make sure Tim doesn't follow suit. At least, with him I can bombard his freaky brain with logic until he's honest. Bruce just tunes it all out.

"Hungry and needing to stretch." He comes out a moment later, his hairline damp from the water he'd splashed on himself. He sighs as he stands there, looking at me. I'm not entirely sure what he's seeing.

I get up. "Come on, let's go reassure Alfred that we haven't done anything stupid, and see what kind of noms he has for us." Right on cue, he's giving me the annoyed raised eyebrow treatment.

"Noms?" His voice is thick with disdain. "This is not the internet, Dick and I'm not a LOL-cat."

"No, but you're cute like one," I tease, which gets me another snort. Then we are heading downstairs. Sure enough, there are wonderful smells wafting from the kitchen. Something very familiar, but not something that Alfred cooks often. I'm literally following my nose as, hands on his shoulders, I propel Tim into Alfred's domain.

I can't see it since I'm behind him, but I'm pretty sure my brother is making one of those quiet little happy faces of his. There is a freshly-baked pizza on the counter.

"Ah, there you are, young sirs. Have a seat, whilst I cut your pizza," Alfred says, utterly calm. There is no trace of worry in his movements. But he made pizza, which happens to be Tim's all-time favourite meal. We sit.

There are tall glasses of milk awaiting us. Some things never change, even though I've long since stopped growing. I glance at Tim. There probably isn't too much hope for another growth spurt for him either, but the milk can't hurt.

When he brings the pizza over, I can see that yes, it is the cheeseburger monstrosity that my little brother favours; cheese, ground beef, cheese, bacon, cheese, onions. Did I mention cheese? There is a reason why Alfred only makes it on rare occasions. But I catch the elderly retainer's smile as Tim takes his first bite

I'm certainly not about to pass up the treat. I dig in.

True to my word, we're in costume about two hours after waking, just in time for dusk. Before we suited up, Tim scrutinized the blood sample, and then did some stretching exercises. I have to admit that concerned me. He's always been extremely contentious about the preventive nature of a proper warm-up and cool-down, but this was even more meticulous than usual.

When he moves to the uneven bars I find myself relaxing; a few concerns alleviated. His routine isn't perfect, but he's not suffering. Bruce must have been very careful, despite his obvious... impairment.

Once night has fallen, we take the bikes into the city. Robin and Nightwing don't lack for things to do, but there's no sign of the Bat. Okay, so we both knew finding him wouldn't be easy, but this is annoying! And I'm back to wanting to kick him in the head a few times. Possibly other places as well.

For his part Robin, is unfailingly patient, which makes me all the more antsy. I have ridiculous flashbacks to my days as Robin with Batman. He does that being-still-for-hours thing very well and seems to have taught it my little brother.

Finally, around midnight, we hear something promising: an alarm at a museum. Ten to one odds, we'll find the stubborn ass there. Except we don't. One look at the trussed-up would-be robbers, and it's painfully obvious that we missed him. Probably only by moments. Damn it.

Tim has his game face on so tightly that my scalp hurts in sympathy. We really need to find Bruce soon. The kid may say he's fine, but eventually he's going to crack, and when he does, it will be messy.

We keep busy, as there is no shortage of situations needing our attention, but the next hour and half crawls by painfully slowly. The convenience store robbery is about as large as it gets. None of it is big enough to attract Batman's attention unless he's already in the area. Which he obviously isn't. Even he wouldn't put civilians in danger just to avoid us. Right?

I nod to myself. Robin is moving off, headed for the next r-point when there is a call on the scanner about multiple shots fired in the area of Bastion Park, a place well-known for its sordid night life.

It actually would take longer to retrieve the bikes than to swing over there. I don't even have to look to know that Robin is already on his way. It's an ingrained reaction at this point.

We are still on the move when we hear the explosion. Tim and I approach from the north-east. There is a smoking pile of something to the south. Between that something and us is a full-on war between two gangs, complete with the liberal use of guns. Well, crap. Right. By the numbers then.

Robin and I split up, but we are never far from each other. Getting cut off in this kind of a mob would be a very bad thing. Start with the gun-toting idiots, which are most of them, actually. On some level, I register movement to the south, but my lizard brain decides it belongs in the non-threatening category, and I focus on taking out a pair of bangers that are more likely to shoot each other in their efforts to get me. Brilliant.

A small part of my mind realizes that the guns in the south aren't firing as rapidly. Are they running out of ammo, or...? Then I see it from the corner of my eye, the familiar flare of his cape. Bruce. About bloody time. Okay, think about hog-tying him later, there are still too many guns to contend with. Too many able bodies.

It's always a little surprising how quickly things move from "daunting" to "done." The bangers are all down and we focus on making sure they stay down. This bunch is going to seriously deplete my zip-strip supply. I'm a little startled, but very relieved to see the Bat piling up the guns. I'd honestly thought he'd leave that to us and bolt.

Just like at the museum, Gotham's finest are already on their way, which means I can focus on keeping an eye on Bruce. Tim and I talked while we were getting ready in the Cave. My brother wanted to be the one to approach Bruce. I can agree with that, but it means that I can't back Bruce into a corner, except as a last resort. Before either of us can make a move toward him, the jerk is flying, leaving the area, looking for all the world like he's about to continue his goddamn patrol. Oh Tim, I'm not sure I can keep my promise to you.

It's not an issue just yet. Robin and I both head off after him. He's not actively trying to lose us, which has to count for something. I just have no idea what. Looking at Robin, I can tell that he's okay with this situation. 'Okay' being a relative thing, of course. So we keep pace, moving with him, functioning silently as a team. One could almost think it's just a normal night with the three of us out together. Except for how it isn't.

I'm not sure what I'm hearing, but it has that bad-wrong feeling that usually means that Nightwing is going to be busy. Robin points to the windows of a tenement across the street and up half a block. Someone, no, two someones are moving around in it, which isn't unusual in itself, but a woman's scream puts things in a very different context. There. We're moving, bursting in on what turns out to be a home invasion in progress.

An elderly couple are tied to chairs. The woman's has fallen on its side, and she's lying on the floor, with her hair not quite covering her obviously bruised face. And one of the perps is urinating on the bound, silver-haired man. Oh no. So not getting away with this crap.

Okay, so maybe I hit the guy relieving himself a little harder than necessary, but I don't really care. Not at this point. The Bat is right behind me, taking care of the other one. It's over in moments. Robin is helping the couple, but the Bat is lurking in a shadowy corner. Well, that's normal, seeing as he tends to scare even the people we're trying to help. Again, he's not taking the opportunity to run, so maybe we're making progress.

When Robin has the couple untied, he catches my eye. We say nothing, but the one quick glance tells me all I need. I gesture for him to go on ahead. I'll stay with the couple while Robin follows the Bat. Of course, this means I'll have no idea what happens between them, which worries me. Still, I did promise my little brother, so I suck it up and put a call in to the police, asking for an ambulance. I don't think the woman's jaw is broken, which is something of a miracle, given her age, but the couple should be checked over properly. They could have injuries beyond the scrapes and bruises I can see.

I decide to wait with them, since I can follow the tracers in the Robin suit to figure out where he has gotten to, and the couple really is that shaky. Thankfully, this is one of those times when the ambulance arrives almost immediately, because someone was in the area. I make myself scarce, but watch from the fire escape long enough to be sure that the cop coming through the door does right by the couple. The officer makes sure the perps aren't going anywhere, and then gives his full attention to the elderly pair. Good enough. I fly.

According to the tracers, my brother, friend and lover is not far. Hopefully, our infuriating mentor is with him. When I swing up to the roof in question, they are both standing silently but it's strained. Was it something said? I don't know, but it doesn't look like they've resolved anything. Fine, let's just get the idiot back home and—

"Where to next?" Robin is asking Batman. He's letting him take the lead? What? Why? I wish I knew what he is thinking.

"South, to Robinson park," is the reply and I can't stop myself from frowning. Truthfully, I want Bruce to know how annoyed I am. But. It is early. We normally keep going for another half hour at least. Well, Robin would; then Batman would send him home so that he's not completely wiped out for school. Tonight we have to make sure that Bruce comes home with us.

One obvious disadvantage to not living in Gotham is, I'm not sure what is happening in the town currently, which means I have to rely on the Bat to communicate what we're looking for and who we're after. It would be easier to get blood from a stone. I learn more from the various thugs we question, even if they can't give specifics about the men Bruce is looking for. Apparently Intergang is trying to make inroads into Gotham. Again. It's something that would worthy of Bruce's obsessive tendencies under normal circumstances. Now? It's a really good distraction.

I give our patrol that remaining half-hour, which brings us up to 3am. That's it, we need to head back. All of us. Standing on the rooftop, I dust off my gauntlets. Loudly. Robin looks at me curiously.

"Right, good patrol," I declare. I actually mean that. We've accomplished a lot, and Bruce can pick up the search for the Intergang flunkies tomorrow. Robin seems amenable to this, as he's nodding calmly. Tapping the comm, he issues the necessary voice commands to call the bikes to us. I recall the burning pile of rubble from before and wonder who Bruce will choose to double with.

Bruce clearly has no intention of going anywhere with us. Not home, at least. Cursing under my breath, I take off after him as he leaps to the next rooftop. Again, he's not exactly running from us, just using the usual patrol speed. Part of me wishes he was outright running from us; then I could feel better about doing something to stop him. But until he does, I have to reign in my desire to throw a bolo at him. So I say nothing as we continue.

Robin is quiet, inscrutable as he follows the Bat's lead, and that makes me want to scream just as much as Bruce's behaviour. Goddamnit! Maybe I can sign us up for a verbal communication course. And family therapy? A call to J'onn is actually not such a bad idea.

When 4am rolls around, I'm through with being patient. This stupidity has gone on long enough. Batman has his grapnel out, ready to take off once more. I silently beg Tim's forgiveness, as I reach out and put a hand over the apparatus. "Batman. Enough." I move in front of him to make damned sure he understands that he's going to have to go through me if he really wants to leave.

The way he goes still is his version of surprised recoil. He really thought we were just going to follow him around and do nothing? Some detective.

The three of us stand there, as a silent battle of wills rages. "Move," he tells me.

"No. And if you leave, I will get the tranqs out." I absolutely serious about that one. "You can decide what you will and won't talk about, but we ARE going home. Now."

I'm not sure when, but Robin has moved very close to us. And I can almost feel the... it's not a plea, but he is mutely asking for Bruce to listen. He has to listen, or this is going to become even messier then it already is.

(End)


	10. Confrontation 3

He let me sleep too long. I knew he would, so it's useless to be annoyed, but I am anyhow. Dick tries—is trying?—hard to lighten my mood, though I don't think I'm acting particularly traumatized. Alfred does the same in his own way. He hasn't made a cheeseburger pizza for me in almost a year.

I want to scream at them, tell them that it's not necessary, but it wouldn't stop them. And the pizza is very good. I can survive.

Stretching out in the Cave is absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, there are some parts of the human body that no amount of stretching can get to.

My skin feels too tight and the air is too thick. I'm constantly checking the clock, and sundown seems to take forever. Usually I can be patient with the best of them, but not this time. Not when I keep thinking about how badly Bruce will have twisted his head over this. Honestly, I'm doing a pretty good job in that department as well.

So I breathe. I work on the uneven bars and use the physical exertion to center myself. I need to be detached if I'm going to be objective. Easier said than done, of course.

There is something very soothing when we finally get into costume and take the bikes out. I'm not disappointed that we don't find him right away. That's pretty much to be expected, seeing as he is Batman. There is still a lot I can learn from him in terms of stealth. But as midnight approaches, it's hard not to become disheartened. At least I can keep my feelings from showing. Dick is under enough stress as is.

We have a plan. In theory. I'm reasonably sure Dick will stick to it, but one never knows. Sometimes he can be hot-headed—especially when his family is involved. Still, even he has agreed that for this to work, I need to be the one to talk to Bruce.

Of course, to implement the plan, we first have to find the man.

We actually have a lot to keep us occupied as we search. Since we are patrolling in a meandering pattern, we run into all kinds of situations that call for our specialized brand of attention. Gotham is a dirty city that seems to breed its own kind of hell, but at the same time, it is home to some very strong people who survive all the city can throw at them and more. Is it egotistical to think I'm part of the reason for their resilience? That we are?

When I started my tenure, I'd thought of being Robin as a temporary thing. I would do my time, then retire and have a normal life. But that was the foolish thought of a terribly young mind. Even if Bruce fires me as Robin for betraying him in the Cave, I won't be able to give it up. I don't think I can give up on Bruce either. I can give him space if that's what he needs, but I can't let go. Not completely.

I love him. No, it's more than that. He is a very large part of my life. Perhaps even bigger then I realize. If he pulled away permanently, a part of me would be lost. I can't let that happen. Somehow I have to make him understand. It doesn't matter if we are never more than friends and colleagues, but I can't handle him being withdrawn and distant. Well, more withdrawn and distant than usual—as if his feelings for me, for what we shared, are something to be ashamed of.

Those concerns are the farthest thing from my mind as I see the explosion. We'd heard the call go out over the police band and are almost at the park when it happens. That can't be a good thing. No, don't think about it. Not now, not when we have a gang war to put down. Fast.

It feels good to work with Dick. We know each other; we know how we move. We are brothers and more. A small part of my mind revels in that, even as I work through the crowd that is now doing its best to take me out of the game.

The job is never effortless, and yet there is something about it which feels like it is, even as the unexpected happens. Like seeing the Bat off to one side, doing his own job. Later, Right now, I have to think about how to survive long enough to talk to him. Did I really just think this was effortless?

Fights, even large scale ones, never last long. Drawn-out showdowns are the stuff of movies. Here it's one hit and down. Sometimes two, but any more than that and I'm not only doing something wrong, I'm getting my butt handed to me. By the time we have things wrapped up, I'm sweating, maybe even breathing a bit hard.

Securing the assorted punks is a must. So I get down to that. There's no need to worry about the various weapons, the Bat is on it. And Nightwing is conspicuously handling the thugs nearest our mentor. I love my big brother, but subtlety is not his strong suit. A little smile makes my own lips twitch. It's good to know that I can still smile even as I want to scream.

No sooner am I ready to head over to them than Batman shoots his grapple line for the nearest building—just when I thought he might be willing to be sensible for a change. I really shouldn't grind my teeth. My dentist has a hard enough time given my Zesti consumption. The first of the police cars is just pulling up as Nightwing and I follow Batman's lead.

Even before I was Robin, I watched people and learned how to read their body language. To anyone else, Batman probably looks perfectly normal. To me, he looks ready to snap. Yet he's not making it hard to follow him. And this is where my plan starts. Talking to Bruce, telling him how I feel, doesn't really count for much, not with him. The man can rationalize his way out of pretty much any explanation that doesn't fit his version of reality, especially when it comes to his family. We have to show him. Oh there will be words, but first must come action. Thus far, Nightwing seems willing to go along with that. It's a good thing.

So we follow. No, not really follow. Move with. It's almost a normal patrol, except for how rare it is for it to be the three of us together.

Something is off and it has nothing to do with Batman. It's just a feeling, but I go with it. Yes, there—movement in a darkened apartment that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The feeling is, unfortunately, vindicated by a woman's scream. The three of us move as one. It's easy enough to deal with the two perps who thought home invasions were a good career path. The pair of senior citizens that the skells tied up and beat is another story. The Bat is leaving; I know he expects one of us to stay with the traumatized victims. Such is protocol. One big reason Batman has a sidekick is because Robin is actually personable, rather than fear-inducing. But I can't this time. Dick knows that and motions me after Batman. I know he'll handle it, just as I know that Bruce has already called it in.

It's not hard to catch up to Batman, which is a bit of a surprise. He seems almost indecisive, as I land next to him on the rooftop. For a very long moment, it's as if time stops while we stand there, him with his back to me. As close as he is, there is an impossible gulf between us. Unless I do something fast, he'll be off again. I seize the chance. Now, it's time for words.

"There is no blame. Not for you," I say calmly, trying to show him with both pitch and posture that I mean it. I do mean it. If anyone is to blame, it's me and I accept that. Now if only Bruce will see that and stop running.

He turns to look at me and I know he doesn't believe me. Even with the whiteout lenses down on the mask, I know. I'm not surprised, but I'll admit to being disappointed. I'm not going to give him the opportunity to rationalize, though.

"I made a choice, Batman. You can't take the blame for that." He's considering, or perhaps I'm letting wishful thinking get the better of me. Whatever he's thinking about, it involves leaving. I can't let him do that. "I need you to listen to me," I say, taking a careful step closer. "Do that for me if nothing else." And that hits the mark. Batman gives the barest nod, which is my signal to continue. "I'm not a child. I haven't been one for a very long time; way before I meet you, even. I've worked hard to be your partner, your equal. Don't slight me by thinking I can't make my own decisions."

He's shutting down. I'm losing him, damn it. No, I can't give up. Another careful step forward. "You didn't screw up. I did," I explain to him, trying to hold his hidden gaze with my own. "I allowed my wants to override my better judgement. *I* put you in this position and I'm sorry." There, it's out, and I wonder how much he'll hate me for it.

I won't find out at this moment, since Nightwing shows up and everything goes cold with the Bat. I understand, as much as he's family, Dick is an outsider when it comes to what happened between Bruce and me. It's a reflex for us both to shut down and not allow the outsider in. It's one of the bad habits we share.

Nightwing isn't happy. A blind man could see that. And I doubt it has to do with the couple he just left with the police. I need to defuse this now. So I say the first thing that comes to mind: "Where to next?" If we keep moving, keep ourselves busy, then at some point it will be enough and we can head home. At least, that's my hope.

And it is definitely the wrong question, as far as the former Robin is concerned. Bugger. Well, Dick is just going to have to work on his patience if this is to be anything other than a disaster.

"South, to Robinson Park," the Bat says and I nod, because that's what he needs.

Over the course of the next hour I learn what Batman is after. Names. Apparently, he's gotten it into his head that tonight is the best time to track down the ringleaders of a new syndicate trying to make inroads into Gotham. And if he gets those names, I have no doubt that his next move is going to be to go and pay them a visit. And if it takes a couple of days to find him, that's probably what he'll do, not bothering with such irrelevancies as sleep.

Nightwing has other ideas. After all, the names will still be there in the 'morning.' He claps his gauntlets together in the universal gesture of being done. "Well, that's a good night's patrol," he announces with forced cheerfulness and an unvoiced threat. I know what he's thinking. We call up our bikes, instructing them to home in on our signals. But before they arrive, Batman is flying. Again. Okay, now I'm losing patience. But I bottle it up; we have to stick to the plan.

So the night continues. We track down information on the three names in very old-school ways: by working informants and threatening our way through the ranks. It's not really necessary; we could have learned it all through some basic computer work. No doubt that's why Nightwing's temper breaks near 4 am. He's been patient with the plan thus far, but there is a limit. I can't really disagree.

When Batman moves to point his grapple at a convenient gargoyle, Nightwing is there, one hand firmly over the device. To use it, Bruce would have to risk taking off several of Dick's fingers, and even he is not that far gone.

"Batman. Enough," I hear Dick say, and I watch as he moves to stand in front of the man. Determination is in every line of his body. Batman goes still and the air is positively electrified as a silent battle of wills is fought.

"Move," comes the gravelly order.

"No." Dick is right in Bruce's face now, damn damn damn. "And if you try to take off again, the tranqs come out." It should be funny; it's the kind of comment that should result in smiles. It doesn't because it isn't. Dick is serious and we all know it.

I move closer. I have to do something, but I have no idea what. It's up to Bruce; he has to be the one to decide that he's going to cooperate or none of this will work. Yes, we can knock him out and get him back to the Cave, but that's really not going to help anything—no matter how cathartic it would likely be for Dick and me.

I look to Batman and there is the faintest shift in the quality of his stillness. I want to celebrate when he nods. Dick is already calling up the bikes. This is going to be awkward, since the car is gone and Bruce will have to double with one of us, because there is no way giving him a bike to himself is a smart idea. Well, too bad. I've had enough; I need to go home, I need sleep. Actually, I need to scream at something, but I'll settle for sleep. Sleep, and part two of the plan Dick and I came up with. Not in that order.

We're down in the alley long before the bikes pull up, and it's tense. More than a few times, I catch Batman scanning the area. I know what he's thinking, but I also know that he won't leave now that he's agreed to end patrol. No, I hope he won't.

When the bikes pull to a stop, Nightwing swings up on his and revs it. Batman just looks at mine. It might be that he's only then realizing what has to happen. Right, time to take charge.

"You can drive, I'll ride behind you," I tell him.

There is a moment of indecision, but then he's getting on the bike and I swing up, under Nightwing's watchful glare. The Bat tenses when I put my arms around him, but then forces himself to relax and takes off, heading for home.

It takes forever and I'm not sure that we're really going to get there. Part of me is expecting Bruce to veer off, to find something else that needs his attention. Yet by some miracle, it's all calm and finally, we're back in the familiar damp darkness of the Cave. I can't express how relieved I am about that.

Dick pulls up beside us and his face is determined. "I'm getting a shower, and if either of you are anywhere but in the Cave or in bed when I get out, you're not going to be conscious for a week." I'm pretty sure Bruce and I have identical raised eyebrows, as we watch Dick stalk off to the change room.

Now what? I suppose we talk, not that Bruce wants to do anything of the kind. He stalks to the computer. Well, that's predictable. But he stops just beyond the console. I know why; the memory is so raw for both of us. We stand there in a silent tableau for who knows how long; then I make my legs move. Walking over to him, I put a hand on his shoulder.

"I meant it. I don't blame you."

Bruce isn't disposed to actually talking about his feelings. So when his quiet words come out, I take them for what they are: a victory. "No. It's not right."

"No, it's wasn't right. I didn't want it to happen because you were under the influence of sex pollen." It's best if I stay calm, if I carefully measure my words, but I don't dare let him have a chance to talk over me. I keep going. "I did want it, Bruce. Do you understand? It doesn't matter if it never happens again, but you are not allowed to beat yourself up about this," I say firmly.

He sits there for a minute, maybe two, digesting the words. I use the time to grab the solvent and take off my mask. We are both spared from having to say anything else by Dick's reappearance. That has to have been the shortest shower my older brother has ever taken. Usually it's twenty minutes or more, but not this time. He's dressed in a bathrobe, but the legs of his pajama bottoms (dark blue, of course) can be seen underneath.

"I'm going to bed," he announces curtly. "And I expect to see both of you at the breakfast table in the morning." Then he's mounting the stairs as if he holds them personally responsible for the entire emotional mess that is our family. We both watch him leave, almost afraid to look at each other.

Since Bruce never made it to the computer chair, I sit in it, prudently not letting my thoughts drift to the recent memories. "Go get a shower, Bruce, I'll do the reports."

I'm a bit surprised when he just stands there without arguing, then silently turns and takes himself into the change room. That area and the attached showers can easily handle twenty people with elbow room to spare, but there is no need for us to be in there together. That would be far too awkward and likely too much to ask at this point.

No, stick to the plan. And there is a plan. Dick should be doing his part already—well, setting up his part. Mine will be about timing. It's hard to focus on doing the reports when most of my attention is on the possibility of Bruce sneaking out of the showers unobserved. But somehow I manage. I only write up the parts that the three of us did together, and only those parts which are pertinent to the patrol itself. All the rest will go into my personal notes, but I can do those later. Right now it's sheer will that is keeping me awake—something I'm less than happy about, given how much sleep I had earlier.

I feel some relief when Bruce comes out in a robe. Usually he's naked underneath, preferring to change in his room, but not tonight. It's going to be like that, then; I can't say I'm surprised. Only a fool would assume everything would go back to normal so quickly.

It doesn't matter. I get up. He's keeping his distance, so I back off, making room for him to take the computer chair if he wants. But Bruce just stands there looking at the console like it might bite him. "My turn for a shower," I say, watching him. He just nods, not looking at me. It's a leap of faith to head over there and leave him. I fully expect him to be gone (hopefully upstairs) by the time I get out. This is why my shower takes less than three minutes.

But when I get out—dressed in my own robe and peejays—I find Bruce sitting at the computer, going over my report and making his own additions. I wait, standing to one side and behind him. Hopefully Dick isn't getting too impatient, not that there's any help for it if he is.

Of course, Bruce ignores me. No suprise there. I clear my throat, but that too yields no result. "I'd rather not be tranquilized," I say to him. That gets a marginal response. His blue eyes flick toward me. "Dick will, you know. And probably enjoy it far too much." I mean it as a joke, but it falls flat.

"He doesn't have to be here," comes the curt reply, as if that solves everything. And in Bruce's mind, it probably does. One more blind spot.

"Yes he does, because he's family, Bruce." I wonder if I sound as tired and frustrated as I think I do. "We all are, and when one of us is hurting, family comes together. Or it should. You," and yes, that's an accusation, "prefer to run away. You know that Dick won't put up with it. And I won't either. You don't have to bare your soul to me, but you do need to head up to bed."

I can see the stony set of his jaw. I'm losing him. "Just go. Please Bruce. I'll help you track down those people in the morning." I hope mentioning his latest obsession isn't a bad idea.

"Hn."

I suppose it could be worse, he could have said nothing at all. "Bed," I reaffirm. "Even if you can't sleep, go and pretend that can. Then Dick will sleep and we'll have breakfast together so that no one gets tranquilized."

I can see that he's thinking about arguing. And I'm running out of things to say fast.

"It is time that you seek your bed, sir," comes the cool, firm voice with its cultured British accent. Alfred is there, just coming out of the shadows as he heads towards us. "Or Master Dick will be the least of your concerns." The voice isn't angry, nor is the body language anything but calm. Yet there is steel there that speaks of dire consequences if that voice is not obeyed pronto.

Of course Bruce doesn't give in, not obviously, not right away. He gets up and cinches the belt of his robe tighter. He says nothing to me or to Alfred as he goes past and heads for the stairs.

Alfred is a miracle worker. Before I can smile my thanks to him, he is standing close, a gentle hand on my shoulder. When I look up I see a world of understanding in his wise gaze. Then he nods toward the stairs. Yes, of course, the plan. I follow Bruce up.

(END)


	11. Epilogue

**Dick**

Leaving them in the Cave is possibly one of the hardest things I've done in a very long time. There are so very many ways it can go terribly wrong between the two of them. Regardless, it's Tim's call and we have our plan. Now that we've successfully gotten Bruce to come home, it's time for the next phase.

Since I showered first, it's my job to set things up appropriately. Tim has been explicit: peejays (including shirt) are a must. It makes sense. We need Bruce to accept what we have in mind, not run screaming for the hills. Of course, he'll probably run screaming anyhow.

No, he won't get the chance, not if Tim does his part. And we can convince Bruce not to use pressure point strikes on us. I open the door to the master suite. It's ornate with lots of wood. Expensive teak. A large bed covered in fine silk linens. There is a Queen Anne armchair by the ornate fireplace. It looks like something out of a Homes and Garden magazine and gives absolutely no sense of the man who lives here.

I wonder what it does to him, to surround himself with something so... remote? Impersonal? But that's probably the point. While Bruce will on occasion sleep here, this isn't part of his life. His life is down below. But not tonight.

Tonight we have to get through to him, show him that there is more to the world then his Mission—or his ideas about what should or shouldn't happen. I could kill him for so many reasons, not the least of which is that it took sex pollen to get him to act on his feelings. And we know those feelings are real, because he wouldn't be this much of a mess otherwise. With a little luck maybe we can at least start to make inroads toward resolving this.

I shed my robe, leave it in a heap on the far side of the bed and lay down to wait.

**Bruce**

I should have argued about the need to get back to the Cave. I should have argued with Dick and his proclamations. I could have argued about needing a shower—especially with the memories I have of those tiled walls. I did argue with Tim, after a fashion. But then Alfred came downstairs and there could be no arguing with him. Not this time. I'd seen that look from my old friend before, and I knew that I was going to lose this battle. One way or the other. So I chose that which still allowed me some dignity and headed for the stairs.

I won't sleep, that much is a given. But sometimes it's the appearances that matter most. Especially with Dick. Tim understands; I have no idea how and part of me is sick to my stomach that he does, but he understands. Dick doesn't and if I'm honest, I'm glad of that. For the most part.

Dick is both caring and forthright, but he wears his feelings on his sleeve around those he trusts. His solution is to talk, often to yell, until it's all out in the open. It's a method that couldn't be more different from anything I might find acceptable. Even so, he's family and his nature is one of the things that means so very much to me. Therefore, if the only way to keep him happy is to pretend to sleep, that's what I'll do. For tonight at least.

The master bedroom is on the third floor next to Dick's old room. Tim's is on the other side of the hall and two doors down. Out of habit, I stop to look in on Dick, and I frown when, even in the darkness, I can see that his bed is empty. He'd said he was going to bed, so where is he?

I'm tempted to check Tim's room, but he'll be up shortly and I don't want to give him the wrong idea. Dick is a grown man and it's not like he can get into too much trouble in the manor—at least, I'd hope not. With Dick, anything is possible.

Coming to the large oak double doors that lead into the master suite, I open one side and step in.

Oh. It seems I've found Dick. He's lying on my bed, frowning at me. "About time you got here," he says.

**Tim**

I have to be fast. Most of the armour is already in the dirty clothes hamper. I just have to sluice down and use enough soap to get the smell of the night off me. It's three minutes tops, but I have to hurry. Timing is everything for this.

It's really just habit that makes me move almost soundlessly as I race up the stairs, following Bruce's path. But I don't for a moment think he's unaware of my presence when I step into the third floor hallway. He is, however, preoccupied with looking into the master suite, where Dick is already in position.

There. He's taken a step back and is just about to turn, but I'm standing there dressed in my own pajamas, looking at him. I hope I don't have to speak. I don't want to speak, I'm not sure I can find the right words to make him listen. So I will him to see what Dick and I are trying to show him. He just looks at me blankly, hiding the stricken look I saw on his face a split second ago. Damn.

"Bruce, we're only asking you one thing. That you accept that we know what we're doing. And what we're asking," I add in my best soothing voice. "I want you. I want to be with you. I've been in love with you since before I knew what that meant."

"Ditto over here, boss," Dick echoes from the bed. "You have no idea how long I've been wanting to be right here."

There is that panicked light behind Bruce's steel eyes. I need to do something, say something. What is the right thing?

"When you're ready, Bruce, we're still going to be here. Do you understand that?" Please, please, I beg silently. I feel a great weight lift when he finally gives me a slow and somewhat hesitant nod. There is more, I know there is more. But this time, when I open my mouth, I have nothing. Thankfully Dick doesn't suffer that problem.

"We aren't talking sex, Bruce. We just—we need to be close to you. We need you to let yourself be close to us. We need you to stop running, Bruce. Can you do that for us?"

It's probably too much to hope for some sign of acceptance to that last one. The look of strangled panic behind Bruce's bland expression really says it all. We're pushing too hard, too fast. I think Dick knows that too, but he's not about to let up. Not when it took so much to get this far. I meet Dick's gaze, mutely asking him to back off, if only a little.

"I'll get some blankets," the acrobat announces as he gets up from the bed. "Tim, do you want the arm chair or the settee?"

That's really not my idea of backing off. Carefully, I glance at Bruce to see how he's taking it. He large man breathes out and seems to relax by sheer force of will. I try to do the same, but I can't.

"I'm... Don't," come the halting, deep tones of Bruce's voice. "I will be here. I'm not... I won't run."

It would be impossibly childish to leap in the air and shout with triumph; yet in some small part of me that urge is there, even if I don't act on it.

"But I can't..." he continues. "I need... time. Please."

I've heard that word so seldom from him that I want—no, I need to give him what he asks.

He's looking at Dick. No, at Dick's hands, as he speaks. "Give me time to process this."

I'm nodding. Dick is too. My older brother moves toward Bruce like he means to hug him, then decides (with obvious pain) against it. Okay, this I can do. I move behind Dick and propel him towards the door from behind. As we pass Bruce I say, "If you need us, we'll be in my room."

"It's an open ended invitation, Boss," Dick adds. "Even if all you want to do is talk." Then we're out of the room and in the hall. Will it be enough? He did say he wouldn't run, but with Bruce—Batman—there are so many ways to run while still being physically present. I don't know if I can trust him.

Trust has to start somewhere. We head into my room, leaving the door ajar. Just in case.

**Alfred**

It hurts to see them so upset, but I can and will do whatever is in my power to alleviate some of the stress. Master Timothy and Master Dick hadn't told me explicitly what they planned to do once they managed to entice Master Bruce home, but it is easy enough to figure out when I see Timothy hovering in the Cave with my employer and original charge at the computer.

Some timely intervention is called for. There are advantages to having wiped someone's bottom as a child. A moderate amount of cajoling sends him upstairs.

Then it is time for me to hang back. I have long practice in observing from a distance, as well as my own password to the Cave's surveillance systems, which of course includes the manor itself.

There are some tense moments, but finally, I see it. It's not a solution. Rather, it's the beginning of something greater, of my family reaching out to each other; as they should, however tentatively. Closing the connection, I head up to find my own bed.

End


End file.
